THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY- 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


To  M.  L.  G. 


To  M.  L.  G. 


OR 


HE    WHO    PASSED 


FOURTH  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
FREDERICK  A.   STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


February, 


To  M.  L.  G. 


2042074 


To  M.  L.  G. 


BECAUSE  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  tell  you 
these  things,  and  because  I  would  not  marry  you 
unless  you  knew  them,  I  let  you  go  without  me. 
I  let  you  believe  that  I  did  not  care  enough  to  go  so  far 
away,  though  in  truth  I  would  have  gone  to  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  world  with  you,  seeing  only  sunshine. 

As  people  say,  not  thinking  what  the  words  mean, 
"  We  have  passed  out  of  each  other's  lives."  But  can 
those  who  have  loved  deeply  pass  out  of  each  other's 
lives  ?  You  are  my  life.  You  began  to  light  the  world 
for  me  —  not  the  very  first  time  we  met,  because  then  I 
misunderstood  you  strangely,  but  the  second  time. 

Every  night  now  I  dream  of  you,  and  the  dreams  are 
more  real  than  reality.  In  the  dreams  we  meet  by  acci- 
dent. Sometimes  you  have  come  back  to  England,  and 
we  run  across  each  other  in  the  street,  or  at  the  house 
where  we  met  that  wonderful  second  time  and  opened 
the  door  of  each  other's  souls.  Or  else,  I  have  been  sent 
to  the  far-off  eastern  country  of  warmth  and  sunshine 
where  you  are  —  where  I  might  be  with  you  to-day,  if  I 
had  said  yes  instead  of  no.  But  —  in  the  dreams  —  wher- 
ever the  places  of  our  meeting,  we  always  say  the  same 
things  to  each  other.  You  tell  me  that  my  not  caring 


2  To  M.  L.  G. 

was  the  worst  part  of  your  loss.  And  I  tell  you  —  what 
I  am  telling  you  now.  Because  this  is  for  you  and  no 
one  else.  Though  others  may  read  the  book  of  my  life, 
only  you  will  know  that  it  is  mine.  And  my  heart  is  in 
it  for  you. 

In  the  dreams,  I  never  finish  what  I  have  to  say. 
Something  always  comes  to  make  me  break  off  in  the 
midst,  and  I  wake  up  in  the  dark  with  the  same  heavy 
sense  of  hopeless  loss  I  had  when  you  left  me,  after  our 
last  talk,  and  I  heard  the  door  shut  behind  you. 

I  would  have  given  all  the  future,  except  ten  minutes 
of  it  with  you,  to  call  you  back,  then ;  but  I  would  not 
call.  In  the  dreams  it  is  different.  I  start  to  call  you. 
I  am  ready  to  go  on  my  knees  and  beg  you  to  come 
back.  But  the  door  of  darkness  is  shut  suddenly  in  my 
face ;  or  else  it  is  as  if  a  bridge  between  our  two  spirits 
broke  with  a  loud  crash,  leaving  a  gulf  that  we  cannot 
cross. 

If  that  day  I  had  run  after  you,  and  opened  the  door, 
and  called,  you  would  have  come  to  me  gladly.  But  —  I 
could  not  have  told  you  these  things,  and  if  I  had  tried, 
stumbling  on,  explaining,  excusing  myself,  you  would 
have  stopped  me.  You  would  have  been  impelled  by 
your  love  and  pity  to  take  me  in  spite  of  all,  perhaps  to 
regret  your  generosity  when  it  was  too  late.  For  you 
would  have  stood  by  your  word,  I  know,  doing  your  best 
not  to  let  me  see  that  I  had  struck  you  a  blow  over  the 
heart.  But  I  should  have  seen  that  you  suffered.  I 
daren't  think  what  our  life  would  have  been  together. 
I  might  have  killed  myself.  I  should  have  had  to  free 
you  somehow. 

Or  else,  fearing  yourself  and  your  love  for  me,  yet 


To   M.  L.  G.  3 

knowing  the  love  to  be  not  quite  strong  enough,  you 
would  have  broken  short  my  story  in  the  midst — I  think 
I  can  guess  just  where  —  and  have  gone  away  of  your  own 
accord.  The  door  would  have  shut  between  us,  just  as  it 
shut  when  I  sent  you  from  me,  but  the  pain  afterwards 
would  have  been  sharper  for  us  both.  Bitter  humiliation 
for  me ;  for  you,  the  sting  of  having  failed  a  woman  who 
loved  you  with  all  that  was  best  in  her. 

That  was  what  I  reasoned  out  when  I  let  you  go,  all 
of  myself,  all  of  my  life  going  with  you,  leaving  only  a 
shell  —  a  shell  full  of  echoes  sad  and  sweet.  I  thought  I 
was  doing  the  wisest  thing  —  the  only  thing,  as  I  could 

not  take  A 's  advice  and  marry  you  without  telling. 

A is  the  one  person  in  England  who  knows,  and 

she  but  a  few  facts. 

You  will  understand  why  I  told  her.  In  America, 
among  those  who  remember  me,  nobody  really  knew 
the  whole  story.  I  could  have  kept  it  all  from  you  if  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  your  wife,  and  never  speak 

of  things  I  wished  to  hide.  But  though  A said  yes, 

something  in  myself  said  no.  And  my  no  was  louder 
than  her  yes. 

It  is  these  dreams  which  have  made  me  wonder  lately 
whether  I  ought  to  have  sent  you  away  not  knowing 
what  you  were  to  me.  Yet  what  could  I  have  done  ?  I 
ask  myself  that  question  over  and  over.  And  a  still, 
small  voice  answers  :  "  Nothing  else  then,  maybe.  Yet 
it  is  not  too  late  to  speak  to  him,  across  the  wide  spaces 
that  dreams  can  bridge." 

This  is  a  plan  that  I  have  thought  of.  Not  just  a 
letter.  No  letter  could  be  long  enough.  And  a  letter 
you  would  have  to  answer  —  in  one  way  or  the  other. 


4  To  M.  L.  G. 

Or  if  you  did  not  answer,  your  silence  could  mean  only 
one  thing. 

Now,  if  you  never  write,  I  can  comfort  myself  by 
thinking  "  it  may  be  he  never  found  the  arrow  I  sent 
him  from  the  dark.  Perhaps  if  it  had  reached  him  he 
would  have  written  or  come."  I  could  manage  to  live 
on  that  morsel  of  comfort,  feeling  I  had  done  my  best 
for  us  both.  Yet  I  believe  that  my  message  will  find  you 
where  you  are  now.  You  will  see  your  initials  in  my 
handwriting  and  the  sign.  I  wear  the  star  in  the  ring 
always  on  the  bangle  you  gave  me,  the  fourteenth  of 
June.  I  wonder  every  day  if  you  have  kept  the  key. 
But  even  if  you  have  thrown  it  away,  I  know  you  cannot 
have  thrown  away  the  memory. 

If  I  had  tried  to  tell  you  these  things,  stammering 
them  out  hot  from  my  heart,  they  would  have  been  like 
a  confession. 

This  is  not  a  confession.  I  do  not  mean  it  for  one, 
nor  for  an  explanation.  I  shall  just  tell  you  things  as 
they  were,  taking  my  life  step  by  step,  showing  how  it 
made  me  what  I  was  —  not  what  I  am ;  for  you,  and 
loving  you,  has  made  me  over  again,  into  what  I  am. 
And  I  have  to  begin  at  the  very  beginning,  with  my  first 
memories,  and  sometimes  many  details,  so  that  if  I  am 
worth  understanding,  you  may  perhaps  come  to  under- 
stand. Only  —  could  a  man  understand  ? 

I  don't  ask  you  even  to  try.  All  I  ask  is,  for  the  sake 
of  the  old  love,  if  none  is  left,  do  not  pity  me.  I  won't 
have  pity.  And,  when  you  have  read  all,  and  are  decid- 
ing for  or  against,  decide  for  your  own  happiness,  not  for 
mine. 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was   as   if  I   had  always  lived  in  the  house.     I 
know  now  that   I  was   two   years  old  when  they 
brought   me  there;  and  I  suppose  people  cannot 
begin   to    remember   things  that  happened  before  they 
were  two. 

In  those  days  things  didn't  seem  to  happen.  They 
just  were,  and  I  was  in  the  midst  of  them. 

The  house  was  in  a  long,  straight  street,  very  wide. 
There  were  two  lines  of  car  tracks  that  went  along  it,  and 
I  used  to  climb  up  on  a  chair  in  one  of  the  front  rooms 

—  whenever  there  was  an  empty  room,  with  no  boarders 
in  it  —  to  look  at  the  cars  rushing  by,  up  and  down,  up 
and  down.     It  was  very  strange  to  me  where  so  many 
people  could  be  going,  the  whole  day,  back  and  forth,  in 
opposite  directions,  for  the  cars  were  always  crowded, 
with  men  hanging  on  outside.     I  thought  the  two  ends 
of  the  world  must  be  at  the  ends  of  our  street.     Whether 
any  one  had  ever  told  me  that  the  world  had  jumping  off 
places  like  that,  I  don't  know,  but  the  thought  was  in  my 
mind.     It  interested  me,  and  was  so  mysterious  that  there 
was  more  pleasure  in  looking  out  from  a  window  of  an 
empty  room  than  from  the  parlor,  as  we  called  it,  where 
all  the  boarders  were.     It  was  an  adventure  to  steal  into 
a  room,  after  the  people  who  had  lived  there  were  gone 

—  perhaps    never    to    come  back  —  and  climb  up  on  a 
chair.     Sometimes  the  room  would  smell  of  a  perfume 
the  last  person  there  had  used,  for  nearly  all  our  boarders 

5 


6  To  M.  L.  G. 

perfumed  themselves  a  good  deal,  and  it  was  seldom 
any  one  thought  to  open  the  windows,  except  in  hot 
weather. 

One  day,  when  I  was  caught  in  the  second  floor  front 
room,  looking  out  of  the  window,  with  the  door  shut,  I 
was  pulled  off  the  chair  and  my  ears  were  boxed  hard,  so 
that  I  heard  a  sound  like  a  top  humming  —  one  of  those 
tops  boys  played  with  in  our  street  in  summer.  Rose, 
the  black  girl  who  boxed  my  ears,  said  that  next  time  I 
spoiled  one  of  those  good  cane  chairs  kneeling  on  it  with 
my  sharp  knees,  she  would  lock  me  up  in  a  closet  where 
rats  lived.  I  was  afraid  of  Rose,  because  she  was  black, 
and  had  a  strange,  musky  smell,  different  from  white 
people ;  and  I  was  afraid  of  rats ;  but  still  I  could  not 
keep  away  from  the  room,  whenever  it  was  empty.  It 
fascinated  me  with  its  echoings,  and  the  feeling  of  all  the 
people  who  had  been  there,  and  had  gone  I  did  not 
know  where.  Even  if  I  had  forgotten  some  of  their  faces, 
they  would  come  back  to  me  clearly  in  the  room  where  I 
had  seen  them.  I  used  to  think  I  might  see  figures  pass 
across  the  dusty  mirror  if  I  kept  my  eyes  fastened  on  it 
without  winking ;  and  often  when  I  had  stared  so  fixedly 
that  my  eyes  watered  and  everything  grew  cloudy,  I 
imagined  that  the  faces  were  there,  behind  the  glass. 

Another  reason  I  liked  the  empty  rooms  was  because 
I  had  a  game  to  play  before  the  mirrors  on  dressing- 
tables  or  mantels,  or  what  we  used  to  call  "  bureaus." 
My  favorite  room  was  the  front  one  on  the  second  floor, 
because  of  a  large  looking-glass  with  an  old-fashioned 
gilt  frame  that  tipped  forward  a  good  deal  over  the  nar- 
row mantelpiece.  The  frame  was  encrusted  with  fly- 
specks,  but  it  seemed  splendid  to  me,  being  like  gold. 


To  M.  L.  G.  7 

This  was  the  most  expensive  room  in  the  house,  so  it 
was  frequently  empty ;  and  I  used  to  play,  before  the 
big  mirror,  that  there  was  another  girl  living  next  door 
talking  to  me  through  a  window.  I  called  the  girl  Lily, 
the  name  I  admired  more  than  any  other.  She  was  Lily 
Merritt ;  and  if  I  did  anything  bad,  or  got  scolded, 
as  often  happened,  I  would  say,  "  It  isn't  me.  I've 
gone  over  to  Lily  Merritt's  house.  This  is  Lily 
Merritt  who  is  naughty."  But  no  one  paid  much  atten- 
tion. I  don't  remember  ever  being  asked  who  was  Lily 
Merritt.  Perhaps  this  was  because,  at  our  house,  people 
were  always  talking  so  much  and  so  loudly  that  no  one 
listened  with  interest  to  any  one  else,  especially  to  a 
child. 

Almost  everybody  called  the  boarding-house  keeper 
Ma,  so  I  called  her  Ma,  too,  though  I  think  I  knew 
vaguely  from  the  first  that  she  was  not  my  mother.  Odd, 
how  children  do  seem  to  know  about  mothers,  and  that 
everybody  must  have  one  or  have  had  one  once !  Lily 
Merritt  and  I  used  to  discuss  mothers  through  the  look- 
ing-glass. Hers  was  very  pretty,  and  gave  her  beautiful 
things  on  Christmas  and  other  days.  Lily  said  that  she 
never  had  her  ears  boxed,  and  no  one  ever  shook  her. 
This  friend  in  the  looking-glass  was  a  great  comfort  to 
me,  and  she  got  to  seem  so  real  that  I  almost  believed  in 
her  existence,  separate  from  mine. 

"  Ma  "  was  not  very  old,  perhaps,  but  I  thought  of  her 
as  old.  She  was  large  and  fat  and  soft-looking,  especially 
in  the  mornings,  when  her  figure  was  rather  like  the  bags 
of  kindlings  I  used  to  watch  going  down  to  the  cellar. 
In  the  afternoons  she  generally  put  on  stiff  corsets,  which 
she  hated.  Then  the  baggiest  part  of  her  figure  stood 


8  To   M.  L.  G. 

out  like  a  mantelpiece,  and  at  meals  she  dropped  things 
on  it  unless  she  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  in  eating  her 
food.  There  were  spots  on  all  her  dresses  because  of 
this,  spots  that  wouldn't  come  out  of  her  winter  things, 
because  she  loved  plush,  and  materials  which  looked  rich 
but  marked  easily.  Her  hair  was  grayish  brown  at  the 
back  and  underneath,  but  there  was  a  surface  of  red 
bronze  that  was  much  brighter  about  once  a  week  than 
at  other  times.  I  slept  in  her  room,  and  it  fascinated  me 
to  see  her  take  off  and  put  on  most  of  her  hair.  The 
part  that  came  off  was  in  puffs,  which  she  hardly  ever 
combed  out  or  brushed,  for  usually  she  was  in  a  hurry  to 
dress  and  undress  ;  so  they  looked  like  rows  of  dusty  mice 
with  reddish  fur,  all  herded  closely  together  on  her  head. 

Once  she  might  have  been  pretty,  for  even  I,  who 
loved  and  keenly  felt  beauty  when  I  was  very  little,  could 
see  how  perfect  her  features  were.  But  they  were  very 
small,  and  her  face  had  grown  so  fat  and  large,  with  two 
scollops  of  chin,  that  they  seemed  to  be  crowded  together, 
a  tiny  knot  of  eyes,  nose  and  mouth,  in  a  big,  round  ex- 
panse of  white,  like  a  clock  dial.  Her  eyes  were  a  deep 
violet  color,  but  there  was  a  disagreeable  fullness  round 
them,  and  as  she  put  black  stuff  on  her  short  eyelashes, 
there  were  always  dark,  greasy  smudges  underneath.  In 
each  corner,  white  dots  would  come,  especially  when  she 
laughed  hard,  and  I  longed  for  her  to  wipe  them  away, 
but  she  never  did.  They  were  invariably  there. 

We  slept  in  a  back  room  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Ma 
had  a  large  bed,  with  yellowish  sheets  and  pillow-cases  that 
were  hardly  ever  changed  if  the  house  was  full,  because 
there  were  only  just  enough  to  go  round.  When  her 
husband  was  at  home  he  slept  with  her,  but  he  was  away 


To  M.  L.  G.  9 

most  of  the  time.  Rose  said  that  he  was  a  "  drummer.' 
I  thought  this  must  mean  that  he  had  to  beat  a  drum,  as 
men  did  in  processions  which  passed  sometimes,  but  I 
found  out  that  he  travelled  to  other  cities,  and  small 
towns,  selling  things.  That  was  being  a  "  drummer," 
though  I  couldn't  see  why.  No  one  ever  called  him  Pa. 
He  was  younger  than  Ma,  or  looked  younger ;  thin  and 
dark,  with  black  eyes  close  together,  which  twinkled 
when  he  was  pleased,  but  snapped  like  a  cross  dog's  eyes 
when  anything  annoyed  him.  He  used  to  be  ill  some- 
times, when  his  face  was  purplish  instead  of  yellowish 
brown,  and  then  he  always  smelled  of  liquor.  I  knew 
that  smell  as  soon  as  I  knew  anything,  for  people  in 
the  house  had  a  good  deal  of  whisky  and  brandy  in 
their  rooms,  in  bottles.  Everybody  called  Ma's  husband 
Henry,  or  Hennery.  He  was  kind  to  me,  but  I  was 
sorry  when  he  came  home,  because  he  snored  at  night, 
and  made  strange,  dreadful  noises  in  his  throat  that  sick- 
ened me  with  fear  in  the  dark.  Although  I  knew  it  was 
he  who  made  them,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
wicked,  indescribable  animals  were  under  the  bed,  and 
might  crawl  out  to  eat  me  up  in  my  low  crib.  Some- 
times I  imagined  their  warm  breath  on  my  face  in  the 
darkness.  And  it  was  still  worse  when  Rose  told  me 
Bible  stories  about  people  who  were  possessed  with 
devils.  I  thought  then  that  perhaps  Henry  was  pos- 
sessed with  devils,  and  it  was  they  inside  him  who  roared 
and  grunted  in  the  night. 

Rose  was  very  religious,  and  read  the  Bible  at  night, 
but  she  was  wicked,  too,  and  it  was  her  greatest  pleasure 
to  torture  me.  I  was  sent  to  her  in  the  kitchen  every 
day  at  one  time  or  another,  and  her  round  black  face, 


10  To   M.  L.  G. 

with  its  huge  rolling  eyes  had  all  the  fascination  for 
me  that  a  black  cat  has  for  a  young  mouse.  She  said 
that,  after  death,  I  would  be  black  and  she  white.  The 
thought  of  dying  (though  I  did  not  know  exactly  what 
death  meant)  and  of  turning  black  frightened  me  horribly. 
The  idea  was  in  my  mind  every  night  when  I  went  to 
bed.  Once  a  sweet  woman  who  stayed  in  our  house  a 
whole  month  taught  me  a  prayer :  "  Now  I  lay  me  down 
to  sleep,  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep.  If  I  die 
before  I  wake,  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take.  Amen." 
After  Rose  told  me  I  would  turn  black  when  I  died,  I 
stopped  saying  the  prayer,  because  I  thought  it  would 
be  better  not  to  remind  God  of  my  dying  in  the  night 
before  I  waked.  I  hoped  if  I  let  Him  alone,  He  would 
forget  me ;  but  it  made  me  feel  restless  and  uneasy  not 
saying  the  prayer  I  had  been  used  to  repeat.  And  I  was 
glad  to  be  roused  up  in  the  morning,  very  early,  by  the 
shaking  of  the  house  with  the  great  traffic  which  began 
at  that  hour;  immense  carts,  laden  with  iron  rails,  or 
beer-vans,  or  a  procession  of  big  horses,  going  I  knew 
not  where.  Now  I  know  that  what  I  used  to  think  the 
end  of  the  world  was  a  ferry,  and  our  street  was  a  thor- 
oughfare between  one  river  on  the  west  and  another  on 
the  east,  at  the  opposite  sides  of  New  York. 

In  Ma's  room  we  could  not  see  the  street,  but  only 
backs  of  other  houses,  and  roofs  where  cats  fought  and 
squalled.  Once  or  twice  in  summer,  however,  every  one 
got  up  before  five  to  be  ready  for  some  excursion ;  so  I 
knew  what  kind  of  things  went  by  along  the  street.  If  I 
had  not  known,  I  should  have  been  miserable  with  curi- 
osity, or  even  fear,  when  the  house  shook  so  early  in  the 
morning. 


To   M.  L.  G.  11 

It  was  a  red  brick  building,  with  green  blinds,  and  a 
narrow  iron  balcony  running  across  the  front.  Every- 
thing was  shabby  about  the  house.  The  windows  were 
not  washed  more  than  once  a  year,  and  the  blinds  were 
gray  with  dust  —  gray  in  little  blotches,  showing  where 
rain  had  fallen  on  thick  dust.  There  were  a  number  of 
narrow  steps  which  went  up  to  the  front  door,  and  in 
summer  Ma,  and  any  boarders  not  working,  sat  on  the 
steps  in  the  evenings. 

There  was  a  whole  row  of  houses  exactly  like  ours, 
and  just  as  shabby.  People  sat  on  those  steps,  too,  and 
often  they  called  out  to  each  other  and  laughed  and 
made  jokes.  But  then  a  car  would  come  booming  along 
in  the  midst,  and  the  end  of  the  joke  would  be  lost. 

In  the  twilight  it  was  not  bad  sitting  there,  though 
smells  of  food  came  up  from  the  basements.  But  it  was 
dreadful  to  open  the  front  door  on  some  of  those  hot 
August  mornings,  just  like  opening  the  door  of  an  oven ; 
and  the  pavement  seemed  to  fly  up  at  your  face,  in  a 
swift  flame,  hitting  you  in  the  eyes. 

Ma  kept  a  boarding-house  for  actors  and  actresses.  I 
thought  then  that  all  grown-up  people  were  "  on  the 
stage,"  and  even  most  children,  though  no  little  girls  or 
boys  ever  came  to  stay  in  our  house  while  I  was  there. 
Several  of  those  I  played  with  in  the  street  went  to  the 
theatre  every  night,  and  I  knew  very  well  what  the 
theatre  was,  because  more  than  once  I  had  been  taken 
there  to  "  walk  on,"  or  rather  to  be  carried  on,  for  it  was 
when  I  was  too  young  to  be  given  a  speaking  part,  and 
I  appeared  as  a  baby.  But  it  was  an  experience  not  to 
forget.  The  lights  and  music,  and  all  the  faces  looking 
up  made  a  picture  in  my  mind  whenever  I  heard  the 


12  To   M.  L.  G. 

word  "  theatre  "  or  "  stage."  Besides,  at  the  theatre  one 
had  lemon  sticks  and  caramels  given  one,  to  keep  one 
quiet. 

On  the  hot  summer  evenings  those  who  were  "  rest- 
ing," and  trying  to  get  engagements,  sat  on  the  front 
steps  with  palm  leaf  fans  in  their  damp  hands,  waiting 
for  those  who  were  "  working  "  to  come  home.  Then 
there  was  talk,  with  beer  or  ginger  pop,  and  lemonade, 
with  cheese,  sandwiches,  and  other  things  to  eat,  mostly 
in  tins,  like  sardines,  or  devilled  ham.  On  the  can  of  the 
ham  there  was  a  picture  of  a  little  red  devil,  which  I 
liked  very  much.  I  always  thought  of  him  if  any  one 
said,  "  Oh,  the  devil ! "  or  "  Go  to  hell !  "  which  were 
favorite  exclamations  among  the  boarders,  even  the 
ladies.  My  idea  of  hell  was  a  red  place,  inhabited  by 
quantities  of  devilled  ham  devils,  and  I  thought  it  would 
be  rather  fun  to  go  there,  if  one  had  not  to  die  first,  and 
turn  black,  after  being  born  white  in  this  world. 

I  was  allowed  to  sit  up  late  on  those  nights.  That 
is,  no  one  noticed  me  or  thought  of  sending  me  away, 
unless  I  made  a  noise.  And  sometimes  one  of  the  ladies 
took  a  fancy  to  me.  When  this  happened  it  was  very 
nice.  She  would  let  me  come  to  her  room,  bring  in  her 
letters,  and  search  for  hairpins  and  collar  buttons  which 
she  dropped  on  the  floor.  I  used  to  find  extraordinary 
things  occasionally,  colored  beads  and  balls  of  chewing- 
gum,  so  it  was  quite  exciting,  though  the  dust  on  the 
faded  old  carpets  made  me  sneeze.  On  the  front  steps, 
at  night,  if  it  were  not  too  hot,  my  loved  one  would  let 
me  hold  her  hand,  to  look  at  her  rings  and  go  to  sleep 
against  her  shoulder  when  it  was  so  late  that  I  couldn't 
keep  awake. 


To   M.  L.  G.  13 

I  can't  remember  the  time  when  any  one  dressed  of 
undressed  me.  Before  I  went  up-stairs  to  bed,  if  I  went 
alone,  somebody  unbuttoned  my  dress  behind.  That 
was  all.  The  rest  I  had  to  do  for  myself.  And  in  the 
morning  I  came  down-stairs  in  my  petticoat,  with  my 
frock  over  my  arm.  Ma,  or  one  of  the  boarders  would 
fasten  it  up  for  me,  in  the  basement  dining-room  at 
breakfast ;  but  it  was  not  every  one  who  came  down  to 
breakfast.  Husbands  carried  up  plates  and  cups  to  their 
wives,  or  young  men  to  the  girls  they  were  in  love  with. 
If  a  lady  had  no  husband  and  no  lover,  but  could  afford 
seventy  cents  extra  a  week,  she  gave  Rose  ten  cents  a 
day  to  take  something  up  to  her  room,  so  it  was  only  the 
ugliest  or  poorest  ones  who  came  down  to  the  basement 
in  the  morning. 

No  wonder  people  did  not  like  coming  down,  even- 
apart  from  being  sleepy  after  a  late  night,  for  the  dining- 
room,  shut  up  for  many  hours,  smelt  of  cockroaches. 
Later,  the  odor  of  different  foods  overpowered  the  other, 
except  in  the  kitchen.  Nobody  who  has  not  seen  that 
kitchen,  or  another  of  the  same  type,  can  imagine  what 
it  was  like  at  night.  The  walls  and  floor  were  a  moving 
black  mass  of  insects,  and  Rose  threatened  to  throw  them 
at  me,  even  to  make  me  eat  them,  if  I  ever  complained  of 
anything  she  did  or  said. 

I  suppose  there  are  such  houses  and  such  people  in 
England,  but  you  cannot  imagine  them ;  your  life  has 
been  so  different  —  with  all  the  difference  between  heaven 
and  hell.  But  I  hardly  knew  that  I  was  wretched,  for  I 
took  everything  for  granted  as  it  came.  When  I  was  be- 
tween four  and  five  I  began  to  learn  things  about  myself. 

One  day  I  was  in  my  favorite  room,  which  was  empty. 


14  To  M.  L.  G. 

No  boarder  had  been  there  for  a  week,  but  on  the  table 
were  some  carnations,  not  quite  faded  yet.  I  had  taken 
them  out  of  the  old  yellow-green  water,  and  finding  the 
stems  gummy,  had  begun  to  dry  them  on  a  soiled  towel, 
when  the  door  was  flung  open  and  Ma  came  into  the 
room  with  a  strange  lady. 

"  You  nasty  little  thing  —  what  a  start  you  gave  me  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  How  dare  you  sneak  into  this  room  ! 
You've  been  slapped  for  it  often  enough." 

"  Oh,  don't  slap  her  now,"  said  the  lady.  "  I  love 
children.  I  lost  a  little  girl  of  my  own  last  year,  just 
about  her  size.  How  old  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly.  She  must  be  nearly  five,"  said 
Ma. 

They  both  looked  at  me,  as  I  stood  with  the  flowers  in 
my  hand.  I  had  dropped  the  towel,  but  Ma  whisked  it 
up  off  the  floor  and  made  it  into  a  ball,  which  she  tossed 
out  through  the  open  door. 

"  Oh,  isn't  she  yours  ?  "  asked  the  lady,  from  whose 
face  I  had  hardly  taken  my  eyes.  I  thought  she  was 
beautiful,  but  different  from  most  of  those  who  came  to 
our  house.  Their  hair  was  usually  gold  color,  or  red,  or 
a  bright  auburn,  but  hers  was  just  brown,  not  even  bronze, 
and  she  wore  it  parted  in  the  middle,  which  gave  her 
brown  eyes  a  gentle  expression.  Her  eyebrows  had  a 
lovely  arch,  though  they  were  no  darker  than  her  hair. 
Most  eyebrows  at  our  house  were  very  black,  and  so  were 
eyelashes,  but  I  thought  hers  pretty,  for  a  change.  She 
was  like  the  picture  of  a  Madonna,  which  an  Irish  Cath- 
olic girl,  before  Rose,  had  left  in  the  kitchen.  I  knew  it 
would  be  nice  to  have  a  mother  with  such  eyes  and  such 
a  smile.  Some  of  the  children  in  our  street  had  real 


To   M.  L.  G.  15 

mothers,  and  cried  for  them  to  come  if  they  fell  down  or 
were  hurt. 

"  No,  she  ain't  mine.  I  never  had  a  child,"  Ma  hurried 
to  say,  as  if  she  could  not  bear  the  idea.  "  I  don't  take 
much  interest  in  children.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the 
Love  Birds  ?  That's  what  they  call  her  father  and 
mother  in  the  profession.  They  care  for  nobody  except 
each  other.  She's  their  child ;  lived  with  a  grandmother ; 
but  the  grandmother  died  when  the  kid  was  two.  That 
was  just  the  time  when  her  parents  had  work  in  New 
York.  They  were  boarding  here,  and  had  to  send  for 
the  kid.  When  they  went  on  the  road  again,  they 
couldn't  take  her,  of  course,  so  they  left  her  with  me.  A 
queer  toad  she  is,  but  we  get  along  with  her  somehow, 
among  us  all.  You  know  how  it  is.  Folks  are  good- 
natured.  Her  papa  and  mamma  expected  to  be  back 
before  this,  or  I  wouldn't  have  kept  her,  but  I've  got 
used  to  her  now.  The  worst  of  it  is,  they  haven't  sent 
me  a  nickel  for  three  months,  nor  written  neither.  I 
don't  hardly  know  what  to  do." 

"  I  expect  you'll  keep  her,"  said  the  lady.  "  My  !  what 
big  black  eyes  you  have,  little  girlie.  Glorious  eyes, 
aren't  they  ?  " 

"  They'd  be  handsome  with  yellow  hair,"  Ma  answered. 
"  She's  a  regular  little  gipsy." 

"  A  dear  little  gipsy,"  exclaimed  the  lady.  "  She  shall 
come  to  me  when  I'm  not  busy,  and  I'll  tell  her  stories, 
for  I'm  going  to  live  here  for  a  while." 

Then  she  turned  to  Ma,  and  said  that  she  had  decided 
to  take  the  room.  They  talked  about  the  price,  and  the 
lady  paid  ten  dollars  for  the  first  week  in  advance,  as 
strangers  always  did.  People  in  the  profession  recom- 


16  To   M.  L.  G. 

mended  boarding-houses  to  each  other,  and  some  one 
this  lady  knew  in  California  had  sent  her  to  Ma,  some 
one  whose  photograph  was  on  the  parlor  mantelpiece 
among  a  hundred  others,  growing  yellow  and  stained  by 
flies  and  time. 

My  new  friend  (she  was  Mrs.,  not  Miss,  even  on  the 
stage)  had  never  been  to  New  York  before.  She  was  a 
San  Francisco  woman,  I  heard  her  say  to  Ma.  She  had 
gone  on  the  stage  when  her  husband  died,  and  had  made 
a  success  in  a  stock  company.  Her  friends  had  advised 
her  to  come  to  New  York  and  try  her  luck.  She  had 
some  letters  of  introduction  to  managers,  but  the  journey 
had  cost  a  good  deal.  She  wanted  to  economize  until 
she  found  an  engagement,  but  she  believed  she  would  be 
comfortable  in  this  room,  and  she  was  glad  there  was  a 
little  girl  in  the  house. 

I  had  never  been  so  happy  as  I  was  in  the  next  few 
weeks.  I  don't  know  how  many  weeks  they  were ;  but 
summer  was  over  when  my  dear  friend  came,  and  there 
was  snow  on  the  ground  when  she  left  me. 

That  room  was  a  different  place  while  she  was  in  it. 
She  asked  for  a  broom  the  first  day,  before  she  unpacked, 
and  swept  the  floor  herself.  Then  she  dusted,  letting  me 
help  with  the  chairs,  using  an  old  but  clean  grease  towel 
from  the  theatre.  The  weather  was  cold,  and  it  rained 
often,  but  she  kept  a  window  open  at  the  top,  night  and 
day.  She  said  no  one  could  be  well  or  good  without 
fresh  air.  I  never  forgot  that.  Also  she  talked  to  me 
about  washing  myself.  "  Think  how  sorry  your  mamma 
would  be  if  she  saw  you  with  dirty  hands  and  face,"  she 
would  say.  "  My  little  girl  used  to  be  bathed  all  over 
every  morning." 


To   M.  L.  G.  17 

There  was  an  old-fashioned  bathroom  in  the  house, 
and  she  gave  me  baths  there.  She  washed  my  hair,  too, 
and  curled  it.  Then  she  would  comb  the  curls  out,  and 
let  the  hair  fall  in  loose  waves,  telling  me  that  it  was  very 
pretty,  and  people  would  admire  it  as  much  as  though  it 
were  golden  if  I  kept  it  neat.  She  bought  me  a  brush 
and  comb  of  my  own,  and  I  enjoyed  using  them.  Be- 
fore that,  I  had  only  Ma's  things,  which  I  hated  and 
hardly  ever  touched,  so  my  hair  was  usually  all  in  thick 
tangles,  unless  one  of  the  boarders  took  pity  on  me,  and 
combed  out  the  snarls.  It  was  very  long  hair  for  a  little 
girl  to  have,  my  dear  lady  said.  Even  then  it  came 
nearly  down  to  my  waist ;  and  when  she  used  to  take  me 
out  for  walks,  as  she  often  did,  people  in  the  street  spoke 
to  each  other  of  my  eyes  and  hair. 

One  day  we  met  a  man  she  knew,  and  they  talked 
about  me.  My  friend  explained  that  he  was  a  kind  of 
artist,  who  made  dolls'  heads,  and  he  wanted  to  use  me 
as  a  model  for  a  new  doll.  "  Why,  does  he  think  I  am 
pretty  ?  "  I  asked.  Then  they  both  laughed,  but  did  not 
answer  my  question.  He  gave  me  five  cents,  and  said, 
"  There,  that's  for  yourself.  You  needn't  put  it  in  the 
missionary  box."  But  I  had  never  heard  of  a  missionary 
box,  and  wanted  to  know  what  one  was. 

"  Poor  lamb,  she's  a  perfect  little  heathen,"  said  my 
lady.  And  she  asked  if  I  would  like  her  to  take  me  to- 
church  some  day.  When  she  told  me  there  was  singing, 
and  that  I  should  see  beautiful  glass  pictures  in  the  win- 
dows, I  said  yes.  So  she  took  me  the  next  Sunday ;  but 
when  I  saw  a  plate  full  of  money  going  round,  I  thought 
it  was  meant  for  me  to  help  myself,  and  I  picked  up  two- 
handfuls.  My  dear  friend  turned  red,  and  made  me  put 


i8  To   M.  L.  G. 

it  all  down  instantly.  People  tittered,  and  stared  at  us, 
whispering.  That  made  me  very  angry,  and  I  said  out 
aloud :  "  I  hate  church.  I'll  never  come  again." 

It  was  in  this  same  week  that  the  artist  called  to  model 
a  doll's  head  from  mine.  I  had  never  thought  before 
about  being  pretty,  but  now  the  idea  was  in  my  mind 
constantly.  I  looked  at  myself  earnestly  in  every  mirror 
I  passed,  and  winked  my  eyelashes,  or  tossed  my  hair  to 
see  how  long  it  was.  I  began  to  be  a  vain  little  thing, 
yet  I  don't  know  that  my  vanity  did  me  much  harm,  for 
it  gave  me  a  feeling  of  pride  in  keeping  clean  and  neat, 
which  I  had  never  had. 

The  artist  came  two  or  three  times,  and  every  one  in 
the  house  was  interested  about  the  doll.  They  all  began 
to  call  me  "  Dolly,"  which  I  liked  much  better  than 
"  Kid,"  the  name  most  popular  in  the  household.  But  it 
was  a  blow,  when  the  model  was  made,  to  hear  the  artist 
say  it  would  be  unlike  me  in  one  way.  It  was  to  have 
yellow  hair.  Dolls  with  dark  hair  never  sold  well,  he 
explained.  The  young  men  boarders  teased  me  about 
this  so  much,  that  I  was  glad  when  eventually  they  for- 
got the  history  of  the  doll. 

My  lady  used  to  cut  figures  from  fashion  plates  for 
me,  and  I  played  with  them  in  her  room.  She  taught 
me  to  fold  layer  after  layer  of  paper  one  upon  the  other, 
and  then  cut  out  some  shape  :  a  cat,  a  dog,  or  even  a  girl 
or  boy.  It  was  thrilling  to  unfold  the  layers  at  last,  and 
see  how  a  whole  procession  of  the  shape  I  had  chosen 
would  appear,  each  figure  attached  to  the  other.  She 
made  me  pockets  in  my  dresses,  too,  and  gave  me  little 
handkerchiefs  to  put  in  them.  I  loved  her  desperately. 
And  when  she  had  found  out  how  Rose  was  torturing 


To   M.  L.  G.  19 

me  in  secret,  and  persuaded  Ma  to  send  the  cruel  girl 
away,  I  worshipped  her  so  for  her  goodness,  I  could 
have  died  for  her,  even  though  in  dying  I  would  have  to 
turn  black.  She  taught  me  a  new  prayer,  and  told  me 
about  angels.  I  used  to  try  and  see  them  at  night. 
Then,  by  and  by,  I  began  to  think  I  really  did  see  them, 
or  almost  think  it.  And  once,  when  I  was  ill,  and  Ma 
had  to  get  up  in  the  night  with  me,  I  hoped  to  make 
her  believe  me  a  wonderful  child  by  crying  out  that 
there  were  angels  in  the  room.  I  expected  her  to 
weep,  but  she  only  remarked,  "  I  guess  you  must  be 
going  crazy."  After  that  I  never  again  mentioned  the 
angels. 

It  almost  killed  me  when  my  dear  lady  went  away. 
A  long  time  passed  before  she  found  an  engagement, 
and  even  then  it  was  not  in  New  York,  as  she  had 
wished.  Nearly  all  her  money  was  spent,  so  she  dared 
not  refuse  an  offer,  though  it  was  to  go  out  to  Chicago ; 
and  the  part  she  had  to  play  was  not  one  that  she  liked. 
She  kissed  me  a  great  many  times,  and  called  me  "  poor 
baby,  poor,  lonely  little  baby."  Then  she  ran  down  the 
steps  with  a  bag  in  her  hand,  and  across  the  street  to 
catch  a  car  that  was  coming. 

I  had  hardly  realized  what  it  would  be  like  to  have 
her  go  until  I  saw  her  running  with  the  bag.  Then  I 
knew  that  she  would  be  carried  away  from  me  forever. 
I  thought  of  our  walks,  of  the  soft  clasp  of  her  hand  on 
mine.  Everything  came  back  to  me  in  a  flash,  and  at 
the  same  time  an  awful  sensation  of  breaking.  I  gave  a 
scream,  and  would  have  run  after  my  precious  friend, 
perhaps  to  fall  under  the  car  and  be  killed,  if  somebody 
had  not  snatched  me  back.  I  heard  a  little  sharp  sound 


20  To   M.  L.  G. 

—  the  gathers  of  my  dress  tearing  as  I  pulled,  trying  to 
escape.     Then  I  remember  no  more. 

I  don't  know  if  I  fainted,  or  whether  a  child  can  faint ; 
but  when  I  opened  my  eyes  I  was  lying  on  a  horsehair 
covered  sofa  in  the  parlor.  It  was  the  horsehair  prick- 
ing my  cheek  which  seemed  to  wake  me  up,  and  my  face 
was  wet. 

Ma  was  saying,  "  My  !  a  regular  little  tragedy  actress  !  " 
For  days  afterwards  I  hardly  ate  anything.  Whenever 
I  put  food  into  my  mouth  I  thought  of  my  lost  friend, 
and  my  throat  shut  up  so  that  I  nearly  choked.  I  cried 
in  her  room  till  I  was  half  blind ;  but  when  the  new  serv- 
ant girl  found  me  there,  Ma  jerked  me  out  and  locked 
the  door  until  the  next  boarder  came. 


CHAPTER  II 

ONE  night  that  winter,  Henry  was  at  home,  after 
being  away  longer  than  usual.  He  came  in  the 
afternoon,  when  Ma  was  at  a  matinee.  He  ran 
up  to  his  room  and  changed  his  clothes,  then  hurried  out, 
leaving  word  with  Maud,  the  new  servant,  that  he  had 
an  engagement  with  some  friends.  He  might  not  be 
back  till  late.  He  must  have  been  in  a  hurry,  for  he  left 
his  things  scattered  about  the  room,  although  he  was  a 
neat  man  in  his  ways,  and  always  packed  and  unpacked 
for  himself  very  carefully.  His  travelling  bag,  which  he 
called  his  "  grip,"  was  invariably  locked.  It  stood  on 
the  floor  in  our  room,  in  a  corner,  behind  a  chair,  as  if 
he  preferred  not  to  have  it  noticed.  I  had  seen  Ma  try 
to  open  it  sometimes  with  keys  of  her  own,  but  they 
would  never  fit.  She  explained  to  me  once,  Vhen  I 
came  in  while  she  was  on  her  knees  by  the  bag,  that  she 
wanted  to  see  if  Henry  had  anything  there  which  ought 
to  be  washed,  but  I  must  not  tell  him  she  was  looking, 
as  he  might  be  silly  enough  to  feel  annoyed. 

This  time  he  forgot  to  lock  the  bag.  Ma  did  not  go 
up-stairs  till  after  dinner.  Then  she  took  me,  because 
every  one  was  saying  my  face  was  red  and  queer,  as  if  I 
were  sickening  for  something.  There  was  scarlet  fever 
in  the  street,  and  Ma  said  she  would  undress  me  to  see 
if  I  had  any  spots.  If  I  had  she  would  get  the  doctor, 
and  maybe  he  would  send  me  away  to  a  hospital.  She 
couldn't  have  me  giving  diseases  to  her  boarders,  espe- 

21 


22  To   M.  L.  G. 

cially  as  my  father  and  mother  owed  her  six  months' 
money. 

I  was  excited,  and  hoped  I  should  come  out  in  spots, 
because  I  thought  it  would  be  interesting  to  be  taken 
away  by  a  doctor  and  to  see  new  things.  But  when 
Henry's  bag,  unlocked  and  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
caught  Ma's  eye,  she  forgot  me  and  squatted  down  with 
an  eager,  fierce  expression  on  her  face.  She  looked 
like  a  person  who  is  very,  very  hungry,  and  suddenly 
sees  food,  which  must  be  eaten  at  once  or  not  at  all. 

She  did  not  take  the  things  out  of  the  bag,  but  fumbled 
among  them.  In  a  cigar-box,  nearly  full  of  pink  writing- 
paper  and  envelopes,  was  one  sheet  with  something  writ- 
ten on  it.  Ma  read  with  the  same  eager  haste  she  had 
shown  in  searching.  "  Aha  ! "  she  said.  "  I  knew  it ! 
I've  got  him  now.  Beast  —  beast ! " 

I  had  never  heard  her  speak  like  that.  Generally  she 
was  jolly  and  laughing,  except  when  she  had  a  headache ; 
but  this  was  a  dreadful  voice,  as  if  she  hated  Henry,  and 
would  like  to  kill  him. 

She  was  hardly  ever  really  cross  to  me,  except  for  a 
minute  or  two,  when  she  would  cuff  my  head  and  push 
my  shoulder,  if  I  were  in  her  way,  or  if  I  asked  questions 
which  she  could  not  be  bothered  to  answer.  But  now, 
when  she  had  gone  all  through  the  bag  and  ransacked 
the  pockets  of  Henry's  coat,  which  sprawled  on  the  bed, 
she  turned  to  me  and  spoke  in  the  same  wicked  sounding 
voice.  If  a  snake  could  speak,  I  think  its  voice  would 
be  like  that.  She  said,  "  Stop  staring  and  gaping,  you 
little  saucer-eyed  owl.  Get  to  bed.  I  don't  care  whether 
you  have  scarlet  fever  or  not,  or  whether  you  give  it  to 
every  d fool  in  the  house.  I  wish  they  were  all 


To   M.  L.  G.  23 

dead.  I  wish  Henry  was  dead.  I'll  make  him  wish  it, 
too  !  "  Then  she  swore  a  good  deal,  but  it  did  not  shock 
me  in  the  least.  I  was  used  to  such  words.  They  were 
in  every  one's  mouth.  If  I  wanted  to  make  people  laugh, 
I  would  swear,  too ;  at  least,  before  my  dear  lady  came. 
Now,  when  I  stopped  to  think  in  time,  I  never  did  it,  be- 
cause she  had  asked  me  not,  as  a  favor,  if  I  loved  her. 

I  began  to  unbutton  my  dress  behind,  but  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  do,'  so  I  was  slow  and  clumsy.  With  some  im- 
patient exclamation,  Ma  pushed  my  hands  down,  and  tore 
the  buttons  out  of  the  buttonholes,  so  savagely  that  sev- 
eral buttons,  already  loose,  flew  off  and  fell  on  the  floor. 
She  was  in  such  a  strange  mood  that  I  was  afraid  of  her, 
and  putting  my  nightgown  over  my  head  without  fasten- 
ing it,  I  jumped  into  bed  with  my  clothes  on.  She  did 
not  notice,  or  else  did  not  care.  In  a  minute  she  subsided 
heavily  on  a  trunk,  which  had  been  hers  ever  since  she 
was  a  young  woman  on  the  stage,  and  had  still  some  of 
the  old  theatrical  labels  clinging  to  it.  As  a  seat,  it  must 
have  left  much  to  be  desired,  but  she  had  a  sullen  air  of 
wishing  to  be  uncomfortable.  She  sat  looking  at  the 
partly  written  letter  and  a  photograph  she  had  found.  It 
was  unmounted,  and  curled  up  at  the  edges.  Sometimes 
she  mumbled  to  herself,  and  I  caught  the  word  "  Beast ! " 
blurted  out  over  and  over  again. 

I  was  sorry  for  Henry,  though  I  did  not  understand 
what  he  had  done.  I  wished  I  could  have  got  up  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  into  the  house,  so  that  I  might 
warn  him  to  go  quietly  away  again.  Not  that  I  had  any 
love  for  Henry;  He  was  never  unkind,  yet  there  was 
something  about  him  that  disgusted  me.  Still,  I  felt  a 
desire  to  protect  him  now. 


24  To   M.  L.  G. 

It  must  have  been  about  nine  o'clock  when  Ma  brought 
me  up,  which  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  evening  at 
our  house,  but  she  did  not  go  down  again.  She  sat  glar- 
ing and  muttering  for  a  long  time.  Then,  as  Henry  did 
not  come,  she  began  to  undress.  She  pulled  off  the  dusty 
puffs,  and  wrapped  two  strands  of  hair  between  the  ears 
and  temples  round  large  curling  pins.  Then  she  got  rid 
of  her  gown,  which  was  of  green  velveteen,  and  began  to 
move  about  aimlessly,  changing  the  position  of  things  in 
the  room.  She  was  in  her  chemise  and  corsets  and  pet- 
ticoat ;  and  perhaps  it  was  a  strange  thought  for  a  child 
to  have,  but  as  I  lay  with  my  head  almost  hidden  with 
blanket  and  quilt,  I  wondered  how  such  a  woman  could 
expect  a  man  to  love  her,  she  was  so  horrid  to  look  at, 
like  that.  You  see,  I  heard  a  good  deal  of  talk  in  the 
house,  about  husbands  who  liked  other  women,  if  they 
were  prettier  than  their  own  wives. 

The  crocheted  trimming  on  Ma's  chemise  was  torn, 
and  some  flannel,  long-sleeved,  low-necked  thing  she  wore 
underneath  was  a  purplish  red,  shrunk  and  hardened  by 
washing.  It  was  pinned  across  her  fat  bust  with  a  large 
black  safety-pin.  Her  corsets  were  of  blue  sateen,  very 
dirty,  and  her  petticoat,  which  hung  crookedly  round  her 
squeezed-in  waist,  was  black  cotton  at  the  top,  with  a 
flounce  of  flowered  silk.  There  was  lace  on  the  flounce, 
torn  off  here  and  there  as  if  it  had  been  bitten.  In  other 
places  it  was  held  up  with  pins.  She  wore  boots,  with 
more  than  half  the  buttons  off,  above  the  ankles,  and  she 
trod  her  heels  over  to  the  outside,  which  gave  her  an  odd, 
waddling  walk. 

Just  as  I  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  I  had  dreamed 
about  the  paper  and  the  photograph,  and  Ma's  anger,  the 


To   M.  L.  G.  25 

door  opened  and  Henry  came  in.  The  one  gas  jet,  un- 
shaded, was  flaring  very  high,  with  a  slight  popping  noise ; 
and  the  light  quivered  on  Henry's  face,  seeming  to  make 
his  black  eyes  twinkle  more  than  ever  for  an  instant. 
But  Ma  turned,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  no  more.  She 
sprang  at  him,  with  the  paper  and  photograph  in  her 
hand.  Henry  grabbed  at  them,  she  resisting.  But  he 
got  what  he  wanted  by  twisting  her  wrist,  and  as  he 
crumpled  paper  and  photograph  together,  she  fought  to 
wrench  them  out  from  between  his  ringers.  When  she 
could  not  do  that,  she  snatched  at  his  collar,  as  if  she 
meant  to  choke  him. 

Then  they  began  calling  each  other  strange  names,  such 
as  I  had  never  heard,  names  of  animals,  and  neither  of 
them  remembered  me.  They  wrestled  together,  the 
floor  creaking  under  their  feet,  and  Ma  began  to  cry  and 
laugh,  gasping  for  breath,  like  the  little  boy  next 
door,  who  could  be  heard  through  the  wall  when  he  had 
croup. 

"  Shut  up  !  "  Henry  panted.  "  You  don't  want  the 
whole  house  to  know,  do  you  ?" 

"  That's  just  what  I  do  want,"  she  shrieked. 

"  Take  that,  then  !  "  and  he  slapped  her  with  the  flat 
of  his  hand  across  the  bare  shoulders,  that  were  mottled 
with  the  cold  in  purple  blotches.  The  slap  made  a  strange 
sound,  like  the  splash  of  a  stone  falling  from  high  up,  on 
the  surface  of  water. 

Ma  screamed  as  if  she  had  been  stabbed,  and,  bounding 
to  the  door,  threw  it  open  before  Henry  could  stop  her. 
She  ran  out,  screaming  "  Murder !  Police !  "  but  she 
must  have  forgotten  how  close  was  the  door  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  for  she  fell,  her  yells  of  rage  turning  to  muf- 


26  To  M.  L.  G. 

fled  moans  of  fear  and  pain.  It  seemed  as  if  the  thud- 
ding of  her  body  on  step  after  step  would  never  stop. 
At  last  came  one  sharp  scream,  which  broke  off  short. 

Doors  flew  open,  and  banged  against  walls.  People 
cried  out  to  know  what  had  happened,  and  exclaimed  at 
something  they  saw.  But  Henry  stood  still,  yellow  pale, 
his  hands  hanging  at  his  sides,  twitching  at  each  of  the 
horrid  bumping  sounds.  He  did  not  stir  until  some  one 
called,  "  Henry —  Henry — are  you  up  there?" 

Then  he  shot  from  the  room,  straight  as  an  arrow,  and 
I  heard  him  running  quickly  down-stairs.  After  that  there 
was  a  buzzing  of  voices.  A  woman  began  to  sob  and 
laugh  in  the  same  way  that  Ma  had  sobbed  and  laughed 
a  few  minutes  ago.  I  knew  that  it  was  Miss  St.  Clare,  a 
friend  of  Ma's,  of  about  her  age.  "  Oh,  poor  dear ! "  she 
shrilled  out.  "  Oh,  what  an  awful  thing.  She's  dead  — 
she's  dead ! " 

I  felt  as  if  a  shower  of  icicles  had  fallen  on  my  naked 
body.  Hardly  knowing  what  I  did,  I  tumbled  out  of  my 
crib,  in  my  nightgown,  which  I  had  put  on  over  my 
clothes,  and  ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  I  had  kicked  off 
my  stockings  in  bed,  and  the  oilcloth  in  the  passage 
felt  cold  to  my  feet,  and  rough  where  it  was  in  holes. 
But  almost  I  was  glad  to  be  cold,  as  I  think  Ma  had  been 
when  she  took  off  her  dress  and  walked  about  the  room, 
muttering,  before  Henry  came.  The  world  seemed  dark 
with  horror  and  suffering,  and  to  have  the  feet  chilled  to 
the  bone  was  like  sharing  the  general  misery,  if  I  could 
not  help.  Child  as  I  was,  vaguely  I  felt  this. 

Although  I  ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  I  did  not  go 
down.  Something  seemed  to  stop  me  at  the  top.  I 
stood  there,  grasping  the  banisters  with  my  little  hand, 


To   M.  L.  G.  27 

and  I  could  hardly  believe  that  the  loud,  pounding  noise 
in  my  ears  came  from  my  own  breast. 

I  thought  that  perhaps  some  one  would  come  up  to 
me,  but  no  one  did.  Looking  down,  I  could  see  eight  or 
ten  people,  some  partly  undressed,  some,  who  had  just 
got  back  from  the  theatre,  in  hats  and  coats.  They  were 
all  grouped  together  under  a  flaring  gas  jet,  which  had 
been  turned  high,  and  blew  in  the  wind  from  an  open 
door  or  window.  Perhaps  the  front  door  had  been  left 
open.  Something  was  tapping  constantly,  though  not 
regularly,  a  window  blind,  I  thought.  It  seemed  to  make 
everything  that  had  happened  much  worse,  and  more  in- 
credible. 

At  last  I  began  creeping  slowly  down,  step  by  step, 
hanging  on  to  the  baluster  rail.  I  was  afraid  of  what  I 
should  see  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  yet  I  had  to  know 
what  was  there. 

Just  as  I  set  my  half  frozen  foot  on  the  lowest  step, 
there  was  a  loud  bang  of  a  door  below.  Then  there  was 
no  more  tapping,  and  the  gas  jet  ceased  to  flare.  Two 
men  came  hurrying  up  to  the  floor  where  the  people 
were;  one  I  knew,  a  thin,  sad-faced,  very  funny  comedian, 
with  hardly  any  hair.  The  other  was  a  stranger,  who 
carried  a  small,  square  black  bag. 

Every  one  moved  away,  to  stand  against  the  wall,  as 
this  second  man  appeared,  and  then  I  saw  that  Ma  was 
lying  on  the  floor,  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs  on  which  I 
stood.  She  lay  on  her  face,  with  her  head  doubled  under 
her  shoulders  in  a  queer  way,  which  made  her  look  head- 
less and  somehow  not  human.  No  one  had  dared  move 
her.  Her  big  body  was  limp,  yet  round,  like  a  bag  of 
flour  thrown  down  anyhow. 


28  To  M.  L.  G. 

Afterwards  the  thought  of  death  was  more  than  ever 
fearful  to  me,  because  of  the  hideous  grotesqueness  I 
could  not  help  associating  with  it.  When  people  spoke 
of  death,  instantly  a  picture  would  spring  to  my  eyes  of 
Ma  waddling  about  the  room  in  her  horrid  blue  corsets 
and  torn  petticoat ;  then  lying  in  a  huddled  heap  on  the 
floor,  under  the  gas  jet. 


CHAPTER  III 

MA  had  broken  her  neck. 
Hardly  any  one  left  the  boarding-house,  only 
Miss  St.  Clare  and  another  woman  who  had 
never  got  on  with  Henry,  but  always  quarrelled  with  him 
sharply  at  the  table.  The  rest  stayed,  and  all  went  to  the 
funeral.  A  sister  of  Henry's  came  to  run  the  house,  but 
she  made  a  great  favor  of  leaving  her  husband  and  chil- 
dren in  Jersey  City,  and  said  she  could  not  stop  long. 
She  looked  like  Henry,  dark  and  yellow ;  and  also  like 
pincushion  dolls  I  had  seen,  with  nut  heads  and  hair 
painted  on  with  India  ink.  She  had  a  very  flat  breast 
and  round  shoulders,  so  that  I  wondered  if  her  head  could 
have  been  put  on  wrong  side  in  front.  Her  husband  was 
a  grocer,  and  she  knew  hardly  anything  about  the  stage, 
she  kept  telling  every  one.  Nobody  liked  her,  and  I 
think  the  house  would  soon  have  been  almost  empty,  if 
Henry  had  not  brought  a  widow  from  Chicago  to  manage 
it.  She  was  handsome  and  young,  with  red  hair,  and 
freckles  that  ran  together  on  her  apple-red  cheeks.  She 
had  a  child,  two  years  old,  a  girl,  and  we  three  slept  in 
the  room  Ma  and  I  had  shared.  Henry,  when  he  was  at 
home,  took  any  room  that  happened  to  be  free. 

The  widow  was  Mrs.  Sage,  and  the  little  girl  was  Sell- 
awese,  a  name  obtained  from  running  Sarah  and  Louise 
together. 

Mrs.  Sage  had  a  loud  voice  which  you  could  hear  all 
over  the  house,  and  she  never  went  up  or  down  stairs 

29 


30  To  M.  L.  G. 

without  running  very  fast.  People  talked  about  her  a 
good  deal,  and  I  often  heard  what  they  said.  She  came 
from  a  railway  restaurant  in  a  town  of  Ohio,  and  was  a 
great  friend  of  Henry's,  the  very  one,  according  to  the 
ladies  (stage-whispering  with  their  heads  together),  of 
whom  Ma  had  been  jealous.  Anonymous  letters  had 
reached  Ma,  it  seemed,  and  she  had  been  watching. 
Then  "  things  had  come  to  a  head  "  —  whatever  that 
meant.  Now,  they  all  prophesied  that  Henry  would 
marry  Mrs.  Sage  as  soon  as  it  was  "  decent,"  if  not 
before. 

What  their  idea  of  decency  was  I  don't  know  ;  but 
Henry  did  marry  her  in  the  spring.  I  remember,  because 
there  was  no  more  snow  after  that,  and  the  winds  were 
warm  and  sweet  like  a  perfumed  breath. 

Mrs.  Sage  was  never  cross  to  me,  until  after  the  wed- 
ding. Then  she  changed  almost  at  once.  Before  that 
she  had  seemed  quite  pleased  to  have  me  play  with  Sell- 
awese,  and  keep  the  child  quiet ;  but  when  she  and 
Henry  were  married,  the  bride  said  there  was  now  no 
place  for  me  to  sleep.  Three  in  a  room  was  enough.  If 
Hen  were  determined  to  keep  me,  I  would  have  to  be 
put  with  Maud ;  but  her  advice  was  to  send  me  to  some 
orphan  asylum,  as  my  parents  had  paid  nothing  for  nearly 
a  year. 

I  heard  the  new  husband  and  wife  talking  on  the  day 
of  their  wedding,  in  the  parlor,  which  was  given  up  to 
them  for  the  afternoon,  by  consent  of  all  the  boarders.  I 
had  brought  Sellawese  in  to  her  mother,  because  she  was 
naughty  and  I  could  do  nothing  with  her. 

"  I  won't  sleep  with  Maud,"  I  said.  "  Maud's  a  black 
girl." 


To   M.  L.  G.  31 

"  She's  not  black.  She's  a  pale  brown,"  Henry's  new 
wife  snapped  back.  "  Besides,  beggars  mustn't  be 
choosers.  You'll  sleep  in  her  room  this  very  night,  or 
you'll  go  out  of  this  house  —  see  ?  " 

But  a  pretty  soubrette,  one  of  the  boarders,  took  pity 
on  me,  and  let  my  crib  be  put  in  her  room.  She  had 
been  making  rather  a  pet  of  me  ever  since  she  came  to 
the  house.  She  detested  Sellawese,  who  was  spoiled  by 
her  mother,  and  always  whining.  Every  one  liked  Daisy. 
She  had  beautiful  pale  brown  hair,  and  used  to  come 
down  to  breakfast  with  it  hanging  over  the  shoulders  of 
her  dressing-gown,  when  she  came  down  at  all ;  but 
generally  the  men  boarders  would  dispute  among  them- 
selves which  should  take  up  her  coffee  and  sausage,  or 
fried  egg.  At  night  there  were  suppers  in  Daisy's  room, 
after  the  theatre.  Each  person  contributed  something. 
Men  and  girls  sat  on  trunks,  or  on  the  bed,  or  the  floor, 
eating  raw  oysters,  with  the  girls'  hairpins  for  forks,  and 
drinking  beer  (brought  in  the  water-jug)  out  of  the  cup 
in  which  Daisy  brushed  her  teeth.  She  had  a  small  back 
room  under  the  one  where  I  had  slept,  but  sometimes, 
from  eleven  thirty  to  one  o'clock,  there  were  as  many  as. 
eight  or  ten  people  eating  and  drinking  there,  not  count- 
ing me  in  my  crib  —  or  out  of  it. 

I  learned  through  talk  in  the  house  that  Henry  had 
put  an  advertisement  in  a  theatrical  paper  which  was 
read  by  every  one  in  travelling  companies.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  my  father  and  mother  by  name,  informing 
them  that,  if  they  neither  fetched  me  nor  paid  my  board, 
I  would  be  placed  in  an  institution  for  the  children  of 
impoverished  actors. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  USED  to  think  that  it  would  be  splendid  to  have 
another  child  in  the  same  house,  but  Sellawese 
made  my  life  a  misery. 

She  was  a  pasty-faced  little  thing,  with  weak  eyes  and 
light  reddish  hair ;  and  as  Mrs.  Henry  let  her  eat  what- 
ever she  liked,  she  suffered  dreadfully  with  indigestion. 
Always  after  meals  a  pain  came  on,  which  she  called 
"  the  rat."  Only  she  could  not  say  "  r "  in  the  right 
place,  so  she  pronounced  it  "  yat,"  which  was  peculiarly 
offensive  to  my  ears.  "  The  yat  —  the  yat !  "  she  would 
squeal,  and  instantly  lie  down  to  roll  on  the  ground,  no 
matter  where  she  might  be.  Then  she  would  roar  to  be 
picked  up  and  carried,  and  this  business  fell  to  my  lot,  as 
I  had  come  to  be  her  unpaid  nurse.  If  I  refused  to  let 
her  ride  on  my  back,  with  her  sharp  little  finger-nails 
sticking  in  my  throat,  just  under  my  chin,  she  would  yell 
for  her  mother,  and  say  that  I  had  slapped  or  pinched 
her.  She  would  even  pinch  her  own  cheek  or  arm,  and 
show  the  mark,  saying,  "  Bad  Doll  did  that.  Punish  bad 
Doll."  And  Mrs.  Sage  would  pull  the  lobes  of  my  ears 
until  they  felt  long  and  red,  like  a  cock's  comb. 

I  was  staggering  up  the  front  steps  with  Sellawese  on 
my  back,  one  warm  afternoon  in  May,  when  suddenly  I 
heard  a  patter  of  feet  on  the  pavement  behind  me,  and  a 
woman's  voice  —  sounding  young  and  fresh  —  calling 
out,  "  My  little  girl ! " 

Involuntarily  I  tried  to  turn  my  head.     Sellawese  dug 

32 


To  M.  L.  G.  33 

her  fingers  so  deep  into  my  throat  that  I  choked  and 
turned  giddy.  I  wavered,  and  would  have  fallen  with 
my  load,  if  some  one  had  not  steadied  me.  Strong  arms 
swung  me  off  the  steps  and  set  me  down  on  the  pave- 
ment at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  I  felt  unreasonably  happy 
and  comforted.  It  was  a  little  thin  man  who  had  caught 
me,  quite  young  I  think  he  must  have  been,  though  all 
grown-up  people  seem  old  to  children  ;  not  good-looking, 
because  his  mouth  was  wide,  with  a  long  upper  lip,  and 
his  nostrils  large  and  quivering,  like  those  of  a  nervous 
horse ;  but  his  dark  blue  eyes  struck  me  with  their  beauty 
and  beaming  kindness.  They  were  the  color  of  sapphires 
in  contrast  with  his  thick  black  lashes,  bushy  black  eye- 
brows, and  curly  hair  which  might  have  been  dipped  in 
ink.  Though  he  was  neatly  shaven,  his  beard  was 
so  strong  that  his  deeply  cleft  chin  and  long  upper 
lip  were  nearly  as  blue  as  his  eyes.  He  had  splendid 
white  teeth,  which  showed  in  his  wide  mouth  in  a 
long,  straight  line,  as  he  bent  over  me  with  a  charming 
smile. 

I  have  always  observed  things  quickly,  and  they  stick 
in  my  memory ;  so  in  one  look  at  this  kind,  beaming 
man,  his  features,  his  expression,  his  attitude  were  photo- 
graphed on  my  mind.  Since  that  day  I  have  always 
been  able  to  see  him  exactly  as  he  looked  then,  stooping 
down,  with  a  tweed  travelling  cap  pushed  far  back  on  his 
thick  curls.  I  was  grateful  to  him,  and  knew  I  could  love 
him  dearly,  yet  my  eyes  and  my  thoughts  flew  from  him 
to  the  woman  whose  fresh  voice  had  cried  out,  "  My  little 
girl ! "  She  seemed  to  me  prettier  than  any  one  I  had 
ever  seen,  like  a  beautiful  doll  come  alive ;  and  it  was 
with  a  shock  of  joy  that  I  saw  her  shake  Sellawese  vio- 


34  To  M.  L.  G. 

lently,  after  tearing  loose  the  little  hands  clutched  round 
my  throat. 

"  Oh,  say,  dearie,  I  guess  that's  enough !  "  the  man 
pleaded. 

But  the  pretty  woman  shook  Sellawese  again,  and 
everything  in  me  that  was  cruel  and  revengeful  rejoiced. 
The  spoiled  little  girl,  who  was  never  scolded,  much  less 
punished,  by  her  mother,  was  horrified  into  silence  for  a 
second.  Then  she  burst  into  a  hoarse  roar  of  rage,  which 
sounded  too  big  and  old  for  her  babyish  body.  It  seemed 
as  strong  as  a  grown-up  woman's  voice ;  but  her  mother 
was  out ;  and  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  house  who 
would  not  have  revelled  in  the  scene. 

"  Take  that,  you  little  brute ! "  snapped  the  woman, 
with  a  pretty  viciousness,  which  seemed  to  me  adorable 
because  it  was  shown  in  my  defense,  and  for  a  long  time 
there  had  been  no  one  to  defend  me.  "  Nasty  little  tyrant, 
I'd  like  to  spank  you  squint-eyed  !  " 

"  There,  there,  drop  the  little  goblin,"  said  the  man. 
"  It's  all  our  fault,  leaving  the  kid  the  way  we  have." 

This  turned  the  woman's  attention  to  me.  She  let  the 
wriggling  Sellawese  go,  and  as  the  child  scuttled  up  the 
steps  into  the  house,  the  lovely  grown-up  doll  squatted 
down  and  drew  me  into  her  arms,  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
or  did  not  care  that  we  were  in  the  street,  with  a  crowd 
of  children  collecting  and  passers-by  slowing  their  steps 
to  linger  and  stare. 

She  was  not  tall,  though  she  had  an  inch  or  two  ad- 
vantage of  the  man  ;  and  squatting  close  to  the  brick 
pavement,  her  face  came  just  on  a  level  with  mine.  A 
pair  of  immense  brown  eyes  swam  with  sparkling  tears 
which,  as  they  gathered  and  fell,  carried  with  them  faint 


To  M.  L.  G.  35 

black  streaks  from  the  remarkably  long  lashes.  But  I  was 
used  to  that  effect,  for  ladies  often  cried  a  little  at  our 
house,  and  nearly  always  damaged  their  complexions  in 
this  way,  unless  they  could  gingerly  dab  their  eyes  in 
time  with  a  handkerchief,  if  they  happened  to  have  one, 
or  flick  the  tears  away  with  a  finger  if  they  had  not. 
This  lady  had  smooth  pink  and  white  cheeks  with  a  few 
little  golden  freckles  that  showed  through  the  powder. 
Her  cheeks  were  delicately  rosy  like  the  inside  of  a  conch 
shell  which  was  a  valued  possession  of  mine,  a  gift  from 
the  sailor  brother  of  a  boarder.  She  had  a  tiny  mouth, 
with  curving  lips,  painted  in  the  shape  of  a  bow  ;  and 
though  her  eyes  were  so  dark,  and  her  arched  brows 
black,  her  hair  was  a  pale  gold,  with  rippling  waves  that 
glittered.  The  only  fault  in  her  oval  face  was  that  the 
chin  receded  a  little.  A  large  navy-blue  hat  was  a  frame 
for  the  shining  hair,  and  her  white  throat  rose  like  along 
stem  of  a  flower  out  from  her  turned-down  collar. 

"Do  you  know  you're  our  baby  daughter?"  she 
asked  me,  in  a  cooing  voice.  "  Oh,  you  poor  wee 
thing;  those  nasty  creatures  let  you  go  looking  like  a 
rag-bag." 

I  flung  my  arms  around  her  and  squeezed  her  tightly, 
while  she  laughed  and  gurgled,  hugging  me  to  her  full, 
hard  bosom.  She  smelled  very  good,  like  scented  grease- 
paint and  powder,  and  seemed  more  than  ever  like  a  wax 
doll  which  Sellawese  owned,  and  would  never  let  me 
play  with.  I  felt  it  was  too  wonderful  to  be  true,  that 
these  could  be  my  father  and  mother. 

"  You'll  take  me  away  with  you,  won't  you  ?  "  I  said. 
And  my  father  laughed  a  nervous  little  laugh,  answering, 
"  Well,  I  guess  we'll  have  to  manage  it,  some  way  or  an- 


36  To  M.  L.  G. 

other.  But  come  on  in  now.  We  can't  stay  in  the  street 
all  day." 

He  picked  me  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  me  into  the 
house,  while  my  beautiful  mother  followed  with  a  good- 
sized  hand-bag  they  had  brought.  No  one  was  in  the 
parlor,  and  I  showed  them  in  there,  for  it  seemed  the 
only  thing  to  do.  The  shutters  were  bowed  and  the 
windows  were  closed  to  keep  out  the  heat.  My  father 
sat  down  in  an  armchair  that  had  a  castor  off,  and  tilted 
over  to  one  side.  He  took  me  between  his  knees  and 
smoothed  my  hair,  which  was  almost  as  tangled  as  it 
used  to  be  before  my  dear  Californian  friend  came  into  my 
life.  Mother  looked  at  herself  in  the  fly-specked  glass 
over  the  mantelpiece,  moistening  her  handkerchief  and 
dabbing  the  faint  black  streaks  off  her  cheeks,  then  dust- 
ing on  powder  from  a  tiny  round  box  in  a  pocket  of  her 
coat.  She  laughed  at  the  stacks  of  faded  photographs. 
"  My,"  she  said,  "  the  same  photos  —  even  the  same  fly- 
specks,  I  bet.  Everything  the  same  as  last  time." 

"  Except  this,"  added  my  father,  nodding  at  me. 

"  Except  this,"  she  repeated,  and  came  to  perch  on  the 
arm  of  the  green  rep  covered  chair.  This  made  it  tilt 
more  than  ever.  She  lost  her  balance,  and  he  quickly 
threw  an  arm  round  her.  They  both  laughed,  and  kissed 
each  other.  Then  they  kissed  me,  too ;  and  though  I 
felt  instinctively  that  I  was  a  second  thought  with  them, 
and  always  would  be,  I  felt  so  happy  that  a  kind  of  gid- 
diness seized  me.  My  knees  trembled,  and  my  father 
snatched  me  up  onto  his  lap.  My  mother  knelt  beside 
the  chair,  pressing  her  head  against  my  arm.  She  had 
taken  off  her  hat,  and  as  her  golden  hair  glittered  under 
my  eyes,  I  saw  that  there  was  a  brownish  line  along  the 


To  M.  L.  G.  37 

roots.  This  disappointed  me  faintly,  because  it  made 
her  seem  a  little  more  like  every  other  woman,  not  quite 
so  unique. 

It  was  thus  that  we  were  found  by  Henry's  wife,  who 
threw  open  the  door  suddenly  and  came  in  with  several 
paper  parcels  dangling  from  her  fingers  by  strings.  She 
had  not  waited  to  put  away  her  purchases,  for  Sellawese, 
appearing  cautiously  behind  her  skirts,  had  doubtless  in- 
cited her  to  vengeance. 

There  was  a  volley  of  recriminations  on  both  sides, 
and  the  words  "  my  child "  were  sharply  repeated  by 
both  women  again  and  again,  but  at  last  my  father  suc- 
ceeded in  making  peace.  He  had  a  rich,  low  voice, 
which  was  curiously  soothing  and  pleasant.  Even  Mrs. 
Henry  could  not  resist  it  long. 

Listening  in  silence,  I  understood  most  of  the  conver- 
sation. There  was  much  talk  about  the  money  owing 
for  my  keep,  but  when  tones  grew  shrill,  my  father  ex- 
plained quietly  that  he  would  now  settle  everything.  He 
had  had  rheumatic  fever,  and  their  savings  had  gone 
while  he  was  out  of  an  engagement,  and  there  had  been 
doctors'  bills  to  pay.  At  last  they  had  found  another 
"  job,"  together,  though  otherwise  not  very  good ;  and 
they  had  had  to  wait  before  coming  to  fetch  me,  until 
the  tour  brought  them  east,  within  fifty  miles  of  New 
York.  They  had  planned  to  wipe  off  part  of  their  debt 
and  board  at  Henry's  house,  looking  for  a  summer  en- 
gagement, but  now  they  said  that  they  would  go  some- 
where else  at  once,  and  take  me  with  them.  They  gave 
Mrs.  Henry  what  money  they  had  to  spare,  which  my 
mother  turned  aside  to  get  out  of  her  stocking.  How 
much  it  was  I  don't  know,  though  I  saw  several  creased 


38  To  M.  L.  G. 

twenty-dollar  bills  counted  by  all  three ;  but  there  was 
not  enough,  and  my  father  had  to  give  the  woman  a 
diamond  ring  he  was  wearing  before  she  would  consent 
to  hand  me  over  with  my  belongings. 

I  had  seen  such  transactions  in  the  house  before,  when 
some  boarder  lacked  money  to  pay  outstanding  debts, 
for  it  was  the  fashion  among  actors  and  actresses  to  in- 
vest their  savings  in  diamond  ornaments.  Then,  if  they 
were  in  difficulties,  they  had  something  to  fall  back  upon. 
My  father  liked  his  ring,  and  looked  at  it  wistfully.  He 
suggested  pawning  it,  but  Mrs.  Henry,  who  had  evidently 
calculated  just  what  was  owing,  said  he  "  wouldn't  get 
enough  within  fifty  dollars."  At  this,  he  reluctantly  gave 
up  the  ring,  and  she  stuck  it  on  one  of  her  own  fingers. 
The  stone  was  yellow,  though  of  a  good  size,  and  made 
her  hand  look  red  and  coarse ;  but  under  an  air  of  mis- 
prisal  she  could  not  hide  her  pleasure. 

I  had  hardly  any  clothes,  for  it  was  now  so  long  since 
money  had  been  received,  that  no  new  ones  had  been 
bought,  and  I  had  outgrown  most  of  my  old  things. 
Such  possessions  as  I  had,  including  the  pink  conch 
shell,  were  made  into  a  bundle  by  my  mother  and  Mrs, 
Henry,  who  went  up-stairs  together,  while  my  father  and 
I  remained  in  the  parlor.  The  house  was  not  very  full 
just  then,  and  there  was  no  one  in  it  for  whom  I  cared. 
Even  Henry  was  away  on  one  of  his  business  trips,  so 
there  were  few  good-byes  to  say,  except  to  Maud,  Rose's 
successor,  and  a  thin  black  cat  named  "  Mascotte,"  who 
often  frightened  me  by  jumping  into  the  window  at 
night.  Maud  had  a  bad  temper,  but  was  not  cruel  like 
Rose.  Sometimes  she  combed  tangles  out  of  my  hair, 
when  I  could  not  manage  them  myself,  and  though  she 


To   M.  L.  G.  39 

did  not  care  how  much  she  pulled  or  hurt  me,  I  was 
rather  sorry  to  think  that  I  should  never  see  her  again. 
I  went  down  into  the  kitchen,  and  gave  her  as  a  parting 
present  a  new  piece  of  chewing-gum  in  paper,  which  my 
father  had  just  found  in  his  pocket  for  me.  I  hated  even 
to  shake  hands  with  Maud,  because  her  palms  were  so 
pink  that  they  made  me  feel  sick,  just  as  it  did  to  touch 
the  hand  of  an  organ-grinder's  monkey.  But  it  was  far 
worse  when  suddenly  she  snatched  me  up  and  kissed  me 
full  on  the  mouth  with  her  moist  lips.  It  was  all  I  could 
do  not  to  scream  and  writhe  myself  free,  but  it  flashed 
into  my  head  that  I  would  be  sorry  afterwards  if  I  hurt 
her  feelings.  I  had  never  realized  any  fastidiousness  in 
myself  before ;  yet  now  it  seemed  that  no  washing  could 
ever  make  me  clean  and  sweet  again.  I  was  afraid  to 
tell  my  mother,  for  fear  she  might  never  give  me  more 
of  her  fragrant  kisses,  if  she  knew  how  I  had  been  defiled. 
For  days  I  kept  the  secret,  which  weighed  on  my  breast 
and  made  me  start  out  of  my  sleep  early  in  the  morning 
with  a  confused  sense  of  disaster ;  but  at  last  I  confessed 
to  father.  It  was  a  relief,  and  yet  a  shock,  to  hear  him 
burst  out  laughing.  Then  I  went  on  to  tell  him  about 
white  people  turning  black  when  they  died,  and  he  said 
that  was  a  damned  lie,  except  about  very  bad  ones.  If  I 
were  good,  I  should  always  be  as  white  as  I  was  at  that 
minute,  maybe  whiter. 

When  we  left  the  boarding-house,  we  walked  along 
our  street  —  I  between  my  father  and  mother,  holding  a 
hand  of  each  —  till  we  came  to  an  apparently  endless 
avenue.  We  went  down  this  for  several  blocks,  and  then 
began  to  visit  different  addresses  which  they  knew  about, 
in  search  of  what  my  father  called  a  "  perch."  Three  or 


40  To   M.  L.  G. 

four  houses  were  full,  except  for  rooms  that  were  too  ex- 
pensive ;  but  at  last  we  found  a  place,  farther  east,  and 
noticeably  shabbier  than  my  old  home.  We  were  all  to 
sleep  in  a  back  room  at  the  top,  but  I  was  happy  and 
excited.  It  was  a  fascinating  room  to  my  eyes,  because 
it  had  no  window  but  a  skylight,  and  there  was  a  patch- 
work calico  quilt  on  the  bed,  made  to  represent  the 
American  flag. 

The  baggage  was  still  to  come,  and  father  had  left 
word  about  it  at  the  other  house,  which  already  seemed 
to  me  remote,  as  if  it  belonged  to  another  world  I  had 
been  snatched  away  from  and  could  never  by  any  possi- 
bility visit  again.  Mother  was  anxious  about  the  trunk, 
fearing  "  that  woman "  would  be  malicious  enough  to 
keep  it,  or  send  it  back,  when  it  arrived  from  the 
"  depot,"  whence  it  was  to  be  forwarded.  Meanwhile, 
however,  she  busied  herself  with  unpacking  the  big  trav- 
elling bag  they  had  carried  in  their  hands.  She  hummed 
little  gay  tunes  in  a  light,  pretty  voice  as  she  took  out 
the  contents,  scattering  them  wildly  about.  She  let  me 
look  on,  and  even  help  her  to  find  places  for  the  things. 
"  What  a  handy  little  body  it  is  ! "  she  said ;  and  that  en- 
chanted me. 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  the  bag  contained,  and 
what  an  extraordinary  collection  had  been  stuffed  into 
it.  Among  other  things,  there  were  a  good  many 
bottles,  one  of  which  had  been  broken,  and  my  mother 
cut  her  hand  with  a  piece  of  glass.  But  father  washed 
the  place,  and  "  kissed  it  to  make  it  well."  Then  I  re- 
membered how  Ma  had  talked  about  them  both  to  my 
dear  friend  from  California,  calling  them  the  "  Love 
Birds,"  and  saying  that  they  cared  for  nobody  in  the 


To  M.  L.  G.  41 

world  but  each  other.  I  thought,  if  only  I  knew  any 
prayer  except  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,"  and  "  Our 
Father,"  I  should  like  to  pray  to  God  that  they  might 
care  for  me.  But  even  "  Now  I  lay  me "  and  "  Our 
Father  "  I  had  not  said  for  a  long  time.  I  supposed  that 
God  was  angry  because  I  had  wanted  Him  to  forget  me 
in  the  night,  so  it  would  be  no  use  asking  Him  for 
things,  supposing  I  had  known  how.  I  dimly  imagined 
Him  living  in  great  state  in  the  church  to  which  my  dear 
lady  had  taken  me,  and  being  always  there,  if  people 
went  to  call  on  Him,  though  by  some  miracle  He  could 
not  be  seen. 

My  father  —  whom  I  soon  learned  to  call  "  Boy,"  my 
mother's  name  for  him  —  went  out  when  things  began 
to  be  a  little  settled,  because  there  was  no  time  to  waste. 

He  was  going  to  "  have  a  chin  with  B ,"  who  was,  I 

learned  afterwards,  a  second  or  third-rate  theatrical  agent. 
Also  he  promised  to  see  Mrs.  Henry,  and  find  out  if  the 
trunk  had  come.  When  he  was  gone,  mother  drew  me 
to  her  and  began  to  run  her  hands  through  my  tangled 
crop  of  dark  curls. 

"  My,  what  a  mop  you've  got,  Midget ! "  she  said. 
"  It  would  be  scrumptious  if  it  was  blonde.  Goodness, 
what  it  would  be  like,  with  your  eyes !  Mine  wouldn't 
be  in  it  with  them." 

Then  she  thought  a  minute,  and  gave  a  little  laugh. 
"  Say,  would  you  like  to  have  hair  the  color  mine  is  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  I  exclaimed.     "  I  would  love  it !  " 

"  Then  you  shall,"  she  replied.  "  I  guess  I've  got 
perox  enough  to  begin  with  anyhow.  But  it'll  need  a 
lot  of  doing.  Ginks,  what  fun  having  everybody  say 


42  To   M.  L.  G. 

you  take  after  me !  Folks  will  think  mine's  natural,  if 
yours  is  the  same,  and  our  eyes  so  dark." 

She  was  as  much  amused  as  a  child  with  a  new  doll. 
Seating  me  on  a  chair  (made  higher  by  means  of  a  hard 
pillow  from  the  bed),  she  tied  a  towel  round  my  shoul- 
ders. Emptying  the  contents  of  a  bottle,  nearly  full, 
into  the  wash-bowl,  she  began  to  wet  my  hair  with  the 
colorless  liquid,  using  a  nail  brush  at  the  roots.  As 
she  did  this,  she  hummed  different  airs,  and  chewed  gum, 
which  at  last  she  took  out  of  her  mouth  and  stuck  on  the 
wall,  till  she  should  want  it  again.  When  my  whole 
head  was  thoroughly  wet,  she  rinsed  my  long  hair  in 
what  was  left  of  the  liquid  in  the  bowl.  I  did  not  like 
the  odor  of  the  stuff,  but  it  was  very  familiar.  Most  of 
the  ladies  in  our  house  smelled  of  it  in  the  mornings,  at 
least  once  a  week ;  and  I  was  passionately  interested  in 
what  would  happen  to  me  after  the  application. 

At  first,  no  difference  could  be  seen.  But  when  my 
hair  dried,  I  squeaked  with  excitement  at  discovering 
that,  from  very  dark  reddish  brown,  it  had  turned  a  bright 
auburn.  This  stage  had  been  reached  about  the  time 
that  Boy  returned,  to  announce  that  the  trunk  was  at  the 
door.  He  had  run  up  four  flights  of  stairs  to  bring 
the  glad  tidings  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  his  face  looked 
odd  and  drawn.  There  were  white  streaks  under  his  eyes, 
and  his  lips  were  bluish  white. 

"  Dearie "  (his  name  for  mother)  clapped  her  hands 
with  joy  about  the  trunk.  Then  her  smile  seemed  to  be 
caught  away  from  her  face,  rather  than  to  fade.  "  You 
mustn't  gallop  up-stairs  like  that !  "  she  exclaimed  crossly. 
"  Don't  you  remember  what  the  doctor  said  ?  Oh,  Boy, 
you  shall  be  careful." 


To  M.  L.  G.  43 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said,  and  his  color  began  to  creep 
back,  though  his  breast  heaved.  Then  he  saw  me,  as  I 
stole  up  to  him,  and  shouted  at  sight  of  my  changed  hair. 
Like  all  the  other  men  I  had  known,  his  unfailing  ejacu- 
lation was,  "  My  God ! "  "  What  have  you  done  to  her  ?  " 
he  wanted  to  know. 

"  It's  going  to  be  '  like  mother,  like  child '  when  she's 
finished,"  Dearie  explained.  He  laughed  till  tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks,  as  I  soon  learned  that  he  did  at  most  of 
her  fancies,  and  though  he  said  it  was  "  a  sort  of  pity,"  he 
did  not  appear  to  disapprove. 

We  slept  three  in  one  bed,  in  the  little  room  under  the 
roof,  and  it  was  very  hot  and  close,  because  we  could  not 
keep  the  skylight  more  than  a  crack  open  at  night,  for 
fear  of  a  sudden  rain-storm  while  we  were  asleep. 

Next  morning  Dearie  sent  Boy  out  to  buy  more  "  per- 
ox  "  (for  it  seemed  that  there  was  still  a  little  private  hoard 
of  money),  and  another  stage  in  my  development  was  at- 
tained. My  hair  became  a  shade  lighter.  That  same 
afternoon  it  was  soaked  again,  and  then  I  was  in  ecstasies 
of  admiration,  for  all  the  crisp  masses  of  waves  and  curls 
were  of  a  gorgeous  red  gold.  In  contrast,  my  big  eyes 
were  like  black  holes  in  my  small  olive  face.  It  cannot 
have  been  becoming  really,  for  my  complexion  was  too 
dark  for  red  hair,  but  I  thought  the  effect  magnificent, 
and  so  did  Dearie  and  Boy.  Every  one  in  the  house  ad- 
mired me,  too  (there  were  not  many  at  the  moment),  and 
in  the  street,  when  Dearie  took  me  out,  people  nearly 
always  turned  to  look  back  after  us.  I  grew  to  expect 
this,  and  was  mortified  for  us  both  if  it  did  not  happen. 
Dearie  grew  quite  proud  of  me,  and  made  me  several 
dresses  out  of  old  ones  of  her  own.  She  dampened  the 


44  To  M.  L.  G. 

roots  of  my  hair  very  often,  and  when  she  brushed  it, 
kissed  me.  I  was  perfectly  happy. 

This  state  of  things  went  on  for  three  or  four  weeks, 
until  it  began  to  seem  that  I  had  always  lived  with  Boy 
and  Dearie  —  except  in  dreams,  when  I  was  invariably 
back  in  the  old  house  with  Ma  or  Mrs.  Henry. 

They  tried  untiringly  to  get  an  engagement,  and  I 
knew  from  their  low-voiced  discussions  in  bed,  when  they 
supposed  me  asleep,  that  they  were  falling  into  debt. 
Dearie  had  had  a  diamond  ring,  better  than  Boy's,  but 
that,  too,  was  gone  now.  Only  to  the  pawnbroker's, 
however ;  and  they  did  not  much  mind,  because  they  felt 
sure  of  getting  it  back  again.  They  were  great  optimists, 
and  always  hoped  for  the  best,  hating  even  to  think  of 
disagreeable  happenings. 

I  can  imagine  your  wondering  how  they  could  have 
kept  those  rings  and  left  me  so  long,  like  an  unclaimed 
parcel,  at  Henry's  house ;  but  knowing  them,  as  I  know 
them  now  in  retrospect,  I  can  well  understand.  Out  of 
sight  was  to  be  practically  out  of  mind  with  them.  They 
had  each  other,  and  contrived  to  be  happy,  through  all 
their  worries  "  on  the  road."  They  could  not  make  pic- 
tures in  their  minds,  as  I  have  always  done,  or  else  they 
shut  their  eyes  upon  all  disagreeable  ones.  It  was  only 
the  sight  of  me,  ragged  and  tangled  and  dirty,  that 
startled  the  lovers,  and  opened  their  hearts,  which  were 
really  warm  and  kind,  though  without  much  permanent 
love  to  spare  for  a  little  third  person.  Seeing  me,  want- 
ing to  rescue  me,  they  were  impulsively  ready  to  part 
with  Boy's  diamond,  which  they  could  hardly  have  borne 
to  sell  for  my  sake,  when  at  a  distance.  As  for  writing 
to  Ma  or  Henry,  and  apologizing  or  explaining  things,  of 


To  M.  L.  G.  45 

course  they  would  not  do  that,  being  their  happy-go- 
lucky  selves.  Perhaps  they  never  saw  the  advertisement, 
or  received  Ma's  letters,  or  if  these  did  reach  them,  still 
they  would  not  answer,  because  all  unpleasant  duties  were 
duties  to  put  off.  And  duties  put  off  were  dissipated  in 
air,  like  smoke. 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  summer  day  Boy  came  home  from  the  agent's, 
wildly  happy.  He  raced  up-stairs,  and  had  to 
be  scolded  before  he  was  allowed  to  tell  his  news. 
Then  he  told  it  panting,  he  was  in  such  haste  to  get  it 
out.  He  had  obtained  an  engagement  for  them  both,  in 
vaudeville.  Together  they  had  written  a  tiny,  quarter- 
hour  play,  and  there  was  an  offer  to  do  it,  at  a  down-town 
theatre,  as  long  as  it  "  attracted."  This  was  a  vague  time 
limit,  but  they  were  satisfied,  and  had  no  fears.  At  best, 
they  had  not  dreamed  of  a  New  York  engagement  in 
summer.  They  had  thought  that,  even  with  luck,  they 
would  have  to  go  on  the  road,  playing  in  small  towns. 

The  two  lovers  hugged  each  other,  and  danced  round 
the  room,  which  made  the  floor  creak  dangerously,  though 
they  were  both  so  small,  and  Boy  so  thin.  Then  at  last 
they  remembered  me,  and  I  was  duly  kissed,  and  made 
to  share  the  rejoicings. 

After  that  followed  a  few  rehearsals,  not  more  than  two 
or  three,  and  Boy  and  Dearie  were  ready  with  their 
"  turn."  The  first  night  they  came  back  happy,  and  too 
much  excited  to  try  not  to  disturb  my  sleep.  When  I 
opened  my  eyes  they  flew  at  me,  and  we  had  a  splendid 
pillow-fight.  "  We've  made  a  hit,  Miss  Mouse !  A  hit  — 
a  hit ! "  said  Boy.  "  Pity  you  don't  know  what  a  hit  is, 
unless  it's  a  slap.  But  you  will  some  day." 

I  assured  him  that  I  did  know,  which  was  true,  for  I 
had  heard  too  much  talk  of  the  theatre  not  to  under- 

46 


To  M.  L.  G.  47 

stand  most  of  the  jargon.  And  my  definition  of  the 
word's  meaning  tickled  my  parents  so  exquisitely,  that 
they  let  me  sit  up  in  bed  and  help  eat  the  supper  they 
had  bought  to  celebrate  their  great  success.  They  must 
have  been  very  extravagant,  for  we  had  expensive  soft- 
shell  crabs,  which  they  had  purchased  at  a  restaurant 
ready  cooked,  in  a  paper  box,  sandwiches,  and  a  basket 
of  strawberries.  There  was  also  a  bottle  of  English  beer, 
or  ale,  which  Boy  pronounced  the  best  in  the  world,  and 
darn  the  cost ! 

It  was  true  their  little  entertainment  must  have  pleased 
the  public,  for  the  manager  of  the  cheap  theatre  (I  know 
now  it  was  one  of  the  cheapest)  prolonged  their  engage- 
ment. They  were  delighted,  and  appeared  to  be  enjoy- 
ing life  ecstatically,  though  a  heat  wave  brooded  over  the 
city,  like  a  hen  that  sits  on  her  nest,  covering  her  chickens 
with  lazy  wings.  But  they  lay  late  in  bed,  sleeping  through 
the  hot  mornings,  and  I,  too,  had  to  lie  there,  very  still, 
for  fear  of  rousing  them.  I  used  to  be  tortured  with 
cramps  in  my  legs,  growing  pains  probably,  and  it 
was  almost  unbearable  to  keep  myself  rigidly  stretched  out 
between  the  two  passive  forms,  hour  after  hour,  staring 
up  at  the  skylight  (over  which  Boy  had  tacked  green 
paper  muslin),  wondering  if  they  would  ever  wake  up. 

Dearie  looked  pretty  and  young  in  bed,  though  her 
face  was  shiny  with  cold  cream  ;  and  the  black  stuff  was 
never  completely  washed  off  her  eyes  after  coming  home 
from  the  theatre.  But  Boy  slept  with  his  mouth  open, 
and  his  dry  white  lips,  and  the  dark  hollows  that  were 
deepening  in  his  cheeks,  made  him  seem  much  older  than, 
when  he  was  awake  and  animated,  smiling  his  kind, 
beaming  smile. 


48  To  M.  L.  G. 

Dearie  did  not  bother  about  bleaching  my  hair  any 
more,  now  that  she  was  busy  in  the  evenings,  and  tired  in 
the  mornings.  Such  energy  as  the  heat  left  her  by  day 
she  used  in  helping  Boy  to  write  another  short  vaudeville 
play,  to  be  ready  in  case  the  first  failed  to  attract.  Even 
this  mental  effort  bored  her,  and  often  she  would  doze  in 
the  midst.  A  dark  streak  grew  out  from  the  roots  of  my 
hair,  appearing  dead  black  in  contrast  with  the  red  gold 
of  the  long  curls,  and  I  looked  a  dilapidated,  uncared-for 
little  object,  even  more  forlorn  than  in  Mrs.  Henry's  day. 
I  saw  that  myself,  in  the  mirror,  where  the  growth  of  the 
dark  streak  interested  me  intensely,  though  not  pleasantly. 
But  Boy  had  brought  me  home  a  handsome  doll,  which 
opened  and  shut  its  eyes,  so  that  I  did  not  grieve  deeply 
over  my  neglected  hair,  until  one  day  a  child  in  the  street 
yelled  at  me,  shouting  out,  "  Zebra  !  " 

The  landlady  of  this  house  kept  no  servant,  except  a 
very  old  black  man  who  waited  on  the  boarders  at  table, 
for  she  had  two  daughters,  and  the  family  of  three 
managed  the  work  between  them.  Her  "  girls,"  as  she 
called  them,  were  plain,  and  rather  cross,  with  long,  nar- 
row faces.  They  seemed  very  old  to  me,  and  they  were 
not  on  the  stage,  which  was  odd  in  their  world.  I  don't 
think  they  approved  of  actors  and  actresses,  and  the 
boarders  felt  that  they  "  put  on  airs."  They  and  their 
mother  were  pleasanter  to  us,  however,  than  to  any  of 
the  others,  perhaps  because  Boy  and  Dearie  were  so  jolly 
and  winning  that  it  was  impossible  to  feel  hard  towards 
such  happy  creatures,  or  perhaps  because  they  were  in  a 
good  engagement.  Many  of  the  rooms  were  unoccupied, 
and  my  father  and  mother  were  offered  one  at  a  less  price 
than  had  been  asked  at  first.  They  talked  it  over,  but 


To   M.  L.  G.  49 

decided  to  stay  where  they  were.  This  was  not  through 
motives  of  economy,  which  never  bothered  them  when 
they  were  flush.  Simply,  it  was  too  much  trouble  to 
move  their  things,  and  they  had  grown  fond  of  the  green 
gloom  under  the  paper  muslined  skylight. 

At  night,  when  Boy  and  Dearie  were  away  at  the 
theatre,  "  doing  their  turn,"  the  two  old  maid  daughters 
of  the  house  looked  after  me  a  little,  unfastening  my 
dress  and  sending  me  up-stairs  to  bed  when  they  thought 
it  time.  After  four  or  five  weeks,  however,  one  of  them 
went  away  on  a  visit.  Her  sister  fell  ill  with  some 
mysterious  malady,  and  a  servant  was  engaged.  To 
my  horror,  it  proved  to  be  my  old  enemy  Rose,  who 
made  goggling  eyes  when  she  saw  me  peering  at  her 
through  the  kitchen  door.  I  confided  my  fears  of  her 
to  Boy,  though  I  found  myself  inarticulate  when  I 
tried  to  go  into  details  of  the  tortures  she  had  inflicted 
on  me. 

Somehow,  when  there  was  anything  to  confide,  it  was 
to  Boy  that  I  went,  never  to  Dearie.  I  felt  instinctively 
that  I  bored  her  ;  but  even  to  him,  with  his  beautiful  eyes, 
I  could  not  speak  all  that  was  in  my  heart.  There  seems 
to  exist  a  mysterious  wall  between  children  and  grown 
people,  which  cannot  be  broken  down  or  passed,  no  mat- 
ter how  well  the  big  and  the  little  ones  may  love  each 
other.  Since  that  time  I  have  often  felt  the  existence  of 
this  wall.  It  is  as  strong  and  indefinable  as  the  barrier 
between  sexes,  which  keeps  men  and  women  from  ever 
understanding  each  other  completely. 

Still,  it  was  enough  for  Boy  to  know  that  I  was  afraid 
of  Rose,  and  he  proposed  taking  me  to  the  theatre  at 
night.  The  servant's  room  was  next  ours,  and  I  was  sure 


50  To  M.  L.  G. 

Rose  would  come  in  some  time,  when  I  was  in  bed,  and 
frighten  me  to  death. 

Dearie  did  not  mind  doing  as  Boy  suggested  ;  and  that 
very  evening  I  went  with  them.  It  was  a  long  time  since 
I  had  been  in  a  theatre,  but  at  once  I  felt  at  home  there, 
and  used  to  sit  quietly  in  the  dressing-room,  cutting  out 
paper  dolls,  as  my  dear  friend  had  taught  me  to  do.  I 
was  told  that  I  must  make  no  noise,  and  never  run  out 
into  the  corridor.  If  I  disobeyed  I  would  never  be 
brought  again,  so  I  did  my  best  to  deserve  Boy's  pet 
name  for  me,  "  Mousie." 

The  partitions  which  divided  their  dressing-room  from 
those  adjoining  did  not  go  up  to  the  ceiling.  There  was 
a  long  row  of  little  cells  on  either  side  the  narrow 
corridor,  more  like  stalls  in  a  stable  than  rooms,  but  the 
actors  thought  themselves  lucky  to  have  such  good 
accommodation.  Everything  said  in  one  dressing-room 
could  be  heard  in  the  next,  unless  the  speakers  dropped 
their  voices  to  whispers,  which  they  seldom  troubled  to 
do.  Before  the  performance  began,  and  after  it  ended, 
when  there  was  no  need  for  silence,  people  shouted  to 
each  other  across  the  partitions,  as  they  made  up  for 
their  parts,  or  wiped  the  make-up  off  to  go  home. 

As  Boy  and  Dearie  were  in  the  theatre  not  much  more 
than  an  hour,  their  dressing-room  did  not  belong  ex- 
clusively to  them.  Their  "  turn  "  came  about  half-way 
through  the  entertainment,  and  a  "  lady  acrobat "  had 
the  room  before  we  arrived.  There  was  a  shelf  for  her 
make-up,  which  those  who  came  later  did  not  touch. 
An  enormous,  spotted  grease  towel  always  covered  it ; 
and  the  mingling  tints  of  red,  blue,  brown,  purple  and 
black  made  me  think  of  a  story  my  Californian  friend 


To   M.  L.  G.  51 

had  told  me.  It  was  about  Joseph  and  his  coat  of  many  t 
colors.  I  imagined  that  to  have  resembled  a  glorified 
grease  rag,  of  great  size.  Though  the  things  on  the 
shelf  were  hidden,  there  were  other  possessions  of  the 
lady  acrobat  which  I  was  free  to  examine  and  admire. 
She  did  her  turn  in  spangled  tights,  covered  as  thickly 
with  sequins  as  the  skin  of  a  snake  with  scales  ;  and  there 
were  close-fitting  jackets  and  trunks  to  match.  She  had 
several  suits,  with  which  to  change  when  she  liked; 
shimmery  crimson  spangles  on  green ;  gold  on  blue,  and 
different  shades  of  green  on  purple.  As  she  was  careless, 
and  trusted  Boy  and  Dearie,  she  left  her  finery  hanging 
on  the  wall.  I  used  to  sit  and  stare  up  at  its  glitter, 
fascinated.  The  twinkling  flash  and  sparkle  hypnotized 
me  into  a  pleasant  sleepiness.  I  cultivated  the  sensation 
when  I  had  tired  of  my  paper  dolls  ;  and  by  the  time  Boy 
and  Dearie  came  bouncing  in  upon  me,  ready  to  dress 
for  home,  I  was  half-way  along  the  road  to  dreamland. 

Their  laughing  voices  outside  in  the  corridor  roused 
me  up,  and  I  always  had  the  same  sensation  of  gladness 
at  hearing  them,  in  remembering  that  I  had  some  one  to 
love  and  take  care  of  me  now.  But  one  night  the  voices 
were  different.  I  woke  up  with  a  start,  not  sure  whether 
it  were  a  dream  or  true,  that  Dearie  was  crying. 

The  next  minute  I  knew  that  it  was  true.  "  Oh,  help 
me  get  him  in,"  she  whimpered.  "  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter.  What  shall  I  do?  Will  they  send  for  a 
doctor  ?  " 

A  man  I  did  not  know  flung  open  the  door  so  vio- 
lently that  it  banged  against  the  thin  wooden  partition. 
Another  man,  dressed  like  a  clown,  with  wild  black 
eyebrows  half-way  up  his  forehead,  a  whitened  face  and 


52  To  M.  L.  G. 

great  red  lips,  was  helping  Dearie  lead  Boy  into  the 
room.  And  Boy  seemed  strangely  dazed  and  weak. 
His  eyes  were  open,  but  dim,  as  I  had  seen  Ma's  once, 
when  she  got  up  and  walked  in  her  sleep.  The  man 
had  his  arm  round  Boy's  waist,  and  Boy's  head  was 
resting  on  his  shoulder. 

Dearie  rushed  ahead  of  the  others  into  the  room,  and 
without  looking  at  me,  began  tearing  her  street  clothes 
and  Boy's  from  their  hooks  on  the  wall,  and  throwing 
them  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  She  was  dressed  like  a 
little  girl,  in  a  short  white  frock,  with  blue  silk  stockings 
and  a  blue  sash.  Her  fluffy  hair  hung  down  under  a 
frilled  white  sunbonnet.  She  had  looked  like  a  big 
child ;  but  now  her  face  was  old  and  drawn,  so  that  it 
was  painful  to  see,  framed  in  the  babyish  sunbonnet. 
My  father  wore  the  costume  of  an  Eton  boy,  with  a 
wide  white  collar,  but  the  silk  hat  with  which  he  made 
great  play  in  his  sketch  was  missing,  and  his  hair  was 
ruffled. 

"  Lay  him  down  here,"  said  Dearie  in  a  choked  voice ; 
and  the  two  men  —  the  clown  and  the  other  —  gently 
laid  Boy  on  the  pile  of  things  she  had  tossed  on  to  the 
floor.  He  gave  a  sigh  as  his  head  came  to  rest,  and 
his  muscles  relaxed  feebly.  His  shut  eyes  opened  once 
more,  searched  for  Dearie,  found  her,  and  smiled  their 
beautiful,  beaming  smile,  though  his  lips  did  not  move. 
Then  his  eyelids  drooped,  slowly,  until  they  were  almost 
closed,  but  not  quite.  A  line  of  white  showed  between 
his  black  lashes,  and  his  face  was  paler  than  I  had  ever 
seen  it,  even  when  he  ran  up  four  flights  of  stairs  too 
fast.  It  had  a  gray  whiteness,  like  burnt-out  ashes,  and 
his  lips  hung  apart. 


To   M.  L.  G.  53 

Dearie  fell  on  her  knees  beside  him,  and  caught  his 
hand  up  between  both  hers,  to  her  breast.  She  bent 
over  him,  sobbing  strangled  sobs,  and  begging  him  to 
speak.  But  he  did  not  answer,  or  open  his  eyes  again. 

For  a  minute  the  two  men  stood  just  inside  the  open 
door,  and  out  in  the  corridor  a  crowd  was  collecting, 
people  in  stage  clothes,  or  half  dressed  for  the  street, 
men  in  wigbands,  women  whose  faces  were  plastered  with 
vaseline.  Over  the  partitions  I  could  hear  voices  asking 
each  other  questions  and  answering  them,  in  solemn 
tones  such  as  people  take  involuntarily  when  they  read 
the  Bible  aloud.  "  What's  up  ?  Oh,  sick,  is  he  ?  Poor 
chap  — poor  girl !  Why  doesn't  the  doctor  come?" 

There  was  no  swearing  or  joking  over  the  partitions 
now.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  thought  about  my  Sun- 
day in  the  dim  church,  and  remembered  the  throb  and 
thrill  of  the  organ. 

An  old  woman  came  into  our  room,  pushing  past  the 
men,  and  tried  to  coax  me,  in  whispers,  to  come  with 
her,  while  my  mother  prayed  out  loud  and  dropped  tears 
on  the  white  face  she  loved.  But  when  I  struggled,  and 
opened  my  mouth  as  if  to  cry,  the  woman  let  my  arm 
fall  instantly.  "  Better  come  away,  and  give  him  more 
air,"  she  half  whispered  to  the  men,  and  pushed  them 
before  her,  neither  resisting.  Then  she  shut  the  door, 
carefully  and  noiselessly.  We  three  were  left  alone. 

I  should  think  that  prayers  had  never  been  heard  over 
the  partitions  before ;  but  now,  the  actors  who  listened 
awestruck  in  their  dressing-rooms,  and  crowded  outside 
our  door  in  the  corridor,  must  have  heard  Dearie  pray- 
ing out  aloud.  She  prayed  in  a  monotonous  voice,  not 
like  her  own,  nor  any  real  voice.  It  reminded  me  of  a 


54  To  M.  L.  G. 

phonograph  doll  in  a  toy-shop,  where  Boy  had  taken 
me,  and  the  thought  that  I  could  not  help  being  re- 
minded of  that  was  dimly  horrible  to  me.  I  did  not  dare 
to  go  near  Dearie,  or  even  to  cry  so  that  she  could  hear 
me,  but  my  checks  were  wet  with  tears  that  burned  in 
my  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Oh  God  let  Boy  live  Oh  God  don't  let  him  die  and 
leave  me  alone  Oh  God  spare  him  spare  him,"  she  was 
praying,  without  any  stops  between  her  words.  And 
outside  the  room  were  no  more  sounds,  except  those  far 
away  on  the  stage ;  now  and  then  a  muffled  roar  of  dis- 
tant laughter  from  the  audience,  and  a  thunderous  clap- 
ping of  hands  ;  but  that  was  in  another  world.  I  did  not 
know  which  was  real,  yet  it  seemed  that  both  could  not 
be  true.  It  was  not  like  being  alive,  to  crouch  there 
unseen,  as  if  I  were  invisible,  hearing  that  strange,  croon-- 
ing voice  that  went  on  and  on,  while  Boy,  who  had 
loved  it  as  he  had  loved  life,  lay  still  and  gave  no  answer. 

A  long  time  seemed  to  pass,  though  it  may  not  have 
been  fifteen  minutes,  before  the  door  opened  softly,  and 
the  man  who  had  helped  the  clown  to  bring  my  father 
in  returned  with  a  doctor.  I  was  sure  he  must  be  a  doc- 
tor, because  of  a  bag  exactly  like  the  bag  I  associated 
with  Ma's  death. 

One  or  two  other  people  silently  followed  them  in,  but 
I  hardly  noticed  any  one  except  the  man  with  the  bag. 
He  had  a  strong,  tired  face,  with  deep-set  eyes  and  a 
prominent  chin.  I  felt  that  whatever  he  said  would  be 
true,  and  whatever  he  did  would  be  best. 

Ever  since  Boy  had  been  brought  in,  I  had  stood  in  a 
corner,  crushed  against  the  acrobat's  spangled  tights, 
which  hung  on  the  wall  like  a  row  of  Bluebeard's  wives. 


To  M.  L.  G.  55 

But  I  grew  conscious  that  I  was  standing  only  when  the 
doctor  came.  Suddenly  I  felt  deadly  weak,  as  if  I  should 
fall,  and  I  clasped  my  hands  tightly  over  my  heart.  They 
were  ice  cold,  though  the  night  was  hot  and  the  room 
close. 

The  doctor  did  not  ask  Dearie  to  move,  but  went  down 
rather  stiffly  on  one  knee  on  the  other  side  of  Boy.  His 
back  was  turned  to  me,  and  I  could  not  see  all  he  did, 
except  that  he  bent  his  head  very  low.  He  looked  wide 
and  squat,  for  he  was  a  stout  man,  but  somehow  noble, 
and  the  whole  room  seemed  changed  by  the  dignity  of 
his  importance.  Just  as  he  got  slowly  up  there  came 
echoing  in  one  of  those  great  bursts  of  applause  from 
the  audience,  and  he  started  slightly,  looking  up  as  if 
he  expected  the  ceiling  to  fall.  But  he  asked  no  ques- 
tion. 

"  My  poor  little  woman,"  he  said  to  Dearie,  laying  his 
square  hand  on  her  head, "  your  husband " 

He  got  no  further.  Dearie  uttered  a  shriek,  and 
throwing  up  her  arms,  flung  herself  face  down  across  my 
father's  body. 

So  she  lay,  writhing  and  moaning,  until  the  doctor 
lifted  her  in  his  arms,  though  she  struggled  like  an  ani- 
mal in  a  trap.  For  an  instant  I  caught  sight  of  her  face, 
and  it  was  not  her  sweet  doll's  face  at  all,  but  that  of  a 
desperate  woman,  whose  eyes  had  already  gone  mad. 

Once  there  had  been  a  dog  running  along  our  street 
with  its  head  down,  and  when  it  came  near  where  I 
played  with  a  little  boy,  who  jerked  me  aside,  it  looked 
up.  There  was  foam  in  its  mouth,  and  in  its  eyes  the 
same  blind,  wild  look  of  savage  pain  that  was  in  Dearie's 
now. 


56  To  M.  L.  G. 

"  Give  her  the  child,"  said  the  doctor,  holding  her  in 
his  arms. 

The  old  woman  who  had  come  before  took  me  by  the 
shoulder,  and  urged  me  towards  my  mother. 

Dearie's  head  was  shaking  from  side  to  side,  her  fair 
hair  streaming  over  her  face,  and  she  took  no  notice  of 
me  until  I  was  made  to  touch  her.  Then,  with  a  sharp 
cry,  she  pushed  me  back  with  both  hands,  so  that  I  fell 
against  the  woman. 

"  Take  her  away  —  I  don't  care  for  her  —  I  don't  want 
her,"  she  wailed.  "  I  hate  her  —  I  hate  every  one.  I'm 
going  to  kill  myself." 

She  made  as  if  to  scratch  out  her  eyes,  but  the  doctor 
caught  her  hands,  and  gathering  her  up  in  his  arms  like 
a  child,  carried  her  out  of  the  room. 

Everybody  else  went  too,  as  if  expecting  something  to 
happen  which  they  must  see.  When  the  old  woman 
came  back,  with  the  doctor  and  no  one  else,  I  was  kneel- 
ing on  the  floor  beside  Boy. 

It  seemed  right  to  kneel.  And  I  had  been  saying, 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep."  I  knew  that  Boy  was 
dead,  and  I  was  sure  that  he  would  always  be  white,  as 
he  was  now. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THEY  had  to  drag  me  away  from  Boy,  for  I 
could  not  bear  tojeave  him  lying  there  alone, 
without  Dearie,  whom  he  had  loved  so  much. 
The  old  woman  tried,  but  I  was  so  strong  and  fierce  she 
could  not  hold  me,  and  a  man  threw  his  coat  round  me 
to  keep  me  from  moving  my  arms  and  legs.  The  coat 
smelt  of  tobacco  and  perspiration,  and  was  rolled  so 
closely  that  it  pulled  my  head  back  by  my  long  hair.  I 
was  furious,  as  at  a  shameful  indignity ;  still,  I  had  been 
so  trained  since  babyhood  never  to  make  a  noise  in  the 
theatre,  that  I  did  not  scream. 

"  See  here,"  said  the  woman,  walking  by  the  man's 
side,  as  he  carried  me  in  a  bundle  hastily  along  the  cor- 
ridor, "  no  one  wants  to  hurt  you.  I'm  going  to  take 
you  home  with  me  for  to-night.  You  can't  stay  in  the 
theatre.  They'll  be  getting  your  father  away.  And 
your  mother's  been  taken  to  a  hospital.  She's  out  of  her 
head,  and  can't  think  about  you.  Be  good,  and  I'll  do 
the  best  I  can  for  you,  until  somebody  else  comes  along. 
I  like  little  girls." 

She  was  not  very  old  really,  but  she  looked  old,  be- 
cause her  dull  eyes  seemed  to  have  died  in  her  face ;  and 
it  was  very  white,  very  flabby,  as  if  the  bones  had  all 
been  cooked,  and  the  flesh  had  jellied  on  them.  I  knew 
she  had  to  do  with  the  theatrical  wardrobes,  and  I 
had  heard  the  lady  acrobat  tell  Dearie  that  she  was 
"  Someone  "  in  the  theatre,  because  she  had  been  the 

57 


58  To  M.  L.  G. 

manager's  mistress  when  she  was  young.  She  was 
known  by  an  abbreviation  of  her  surname,  which 
sounded  like  "  Touey."  It  was  not  that,  but  I  will  call 
her  so,  here. 

Outside  the  stage  door  the  man  set  me  down,  releas- 
ing me  from  his  coat,  and  Touey  caught  my  hand,  fear- 
ing that  I  would  try  to  run  back.  To  do  that  did  not 
occur  to  me,  until  her  start  put  the  idea  into  my  head. 
But  even  then  I  made  no  such  move.  I  knew  that  it 
would  be  useless,  and  that  I  should  never  see  Boy  again. 
I  went  with  Touey,  crying  quietly,  thinking  of  his  beau- 
tiful kind  eyes  and  his  last  smile  that  had  been  for  Dearie. 

The  woman  lived  only  a  short  distance  from  the  theatre, 
not  in  a  boarding-house,  but  in  a  little  flat  at  the  top  of  a 
building  which  smelled  very  old,  as  we  went  up  the  nar- 
row stairs.  She  had  two  rooms,  a  bedroom  and  a  tiny 
dark  kitchen,  like  a  cupboard.  The  bedroom  was  small, 
too,  and  looked  smaller  than  it  was,  being  stuffed  full  of 
parlor  furniture,  much  too  large  for  it,  which  must  have 
come  from  a  bigger  house.  Pictures  of  actors  and  ac- 
tresses and  photographs  without  frames  were  stuck  all 
over  the  walls,  as  high  as  a  hand  could  reach  to  nail  them 
up.  There  was  one  window,  but  it  came  within  two  feet 
of  another  house,  so  that  it  was  always  twilight,  except 
at  night  when  the  gas  flared. 

Touey  struck  a  match  when  she  had  unlocked  the  door, 
and  lit  the  gas  when  she  brought  me  in.  We  entered 
opposite  a  mantelpiece,  and  the  first  thing  that  caught 
my  eye  was  the  life-size  portrait  —  head  and  bust  —  of  a 
beautiful  woman,  done  in  crayon,  as  if  it  had  been  en- 
larged from  a  photograph. 

The   woman    in   the   picture   seemed   young,   and    I 


To  M.  L.  G.  59 

thought  of  Touey  as  old ;  yet  there  was  a  likeness  be- 
tween the  two. 

The  portrait  was  taken  in  profile,  looking  over  the 
shoulder,  and  the  straight  line  between  the  forehead  and 
nose,  the  curve  of  the  lips,  and  the  way  of  dressing  the 
hair  in  a  bunch  of  curls,  made  it  look  like  one  of  the 
"  plaster  ladies,"  as  I  called  them,  copies  of  Greek  statues, 
used  as  property  decorations  at  the  theatre.  Then  I  re- 
alized that  the  faded  Touey  was  like  that,  too,  only  she 
was  a  dissipated,  broken  statue. 

The  "  somebody  else  "  she  had  spoken  of,  who  would 
look  after  me  by  and  by,  did  not  come  to  claim  me.  No 
one  ever  came  to  Touey's  rooms,  except  a  woman  who 
did  a  little  cleaning  once  a  week ;  and  Touey  never  would 
go  out,  all  day  long,  till  evening,  just  before  the  "  show." 
Then  the  forlorn  statue  seemed  to  come  alive,  and  wak- 
ing up  did  some  necessary  shopping.  I  was  taken  with 
her,  as  she  could  not  leave  me  alone  in  her  rooms ;  and 
so,  going  back  to  the  theatre  again,  I  heard  much  talk. 
Touey  made  no  friends,  and  did  not  talk  of  herself  or  her 
own  affairs ;  but  she  listened  to  gossip,  with  that  dead 
look  in  her  eyes  as  if  her  soul  had  been  sent  off  on  a  dis- 
tant errand.  I  heard  that  I  had  no  relations,  except 
Dearie,  and  she  was  still  in  hospital.  People  whispered 
to  each  other  that  she  had  tried  to  kill  herself,  but  others 
were  of  opinion  that  she  was  too  soft  for  anything  of  that 
kind.  She  might  mope,  but  she  would  never  have  the 
courage  to  hurt  her  pretty  body.  She  could  not  act 
much,  I  heard  it  said,  but  Boy  had  been  a  fine  actor,  and 
might  have  climbed  to  the  "  top  of  the  tree  "  if  he  had 
had  ambition. 

Living  with  Touey,  never  having  exercise  or  sunlight, 


60  To   M.  L.  G. 

eating  anything  she  chose  to  give  me  out  of  tins,  since 
she  hated  cooking,  reduced  me  to  a  curious  state  for  a 
child.  I  was  passionately  homesick  for  Boy  and  Dearie 
at  first,  but  by  and  by,  as  my  vitality  ebbed,  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  never  had  a  father  and  mother,  except  in  dreams. 
My  despair  died  down  into  apathy.  It  did  not  matter 
to  me  whether  I  stayed  indoors  or  went  out.  I  never 
wished  to  play,  and  though  Touey  was  kind  in  her  weary 
way,  buying  me  striped  sticks  of  candy  and  chocolate 
mice  when  she  shopped,  I  shrank  from  her  ungratefully. 

Something  strange  was  the  matter  with  Touey,  I  did 
not  know  what,  and  had  little  curiosity  about  it,  though 
I  thought  of  it  often,  and  wondered  if,  whatever  it  was,  I 
should  get  it  too.  I  began  to  think  that  I  was  growing 
like  her,  and  stared  into  my  eyes  in  the  greenish  mirror 
over  the  bureau  to  see  if  they  were  dying  in  my  face,  or 
if  my  flesh  looked  white  and  baggy. 

All  over  her  arms  and  legs  were  queer  marks,  which 
came  from  sticking  the  needle-point  of  a  little  syringe 
into  her  skin.  She  did  this  every  night  after  coming 
home  from  the  theatre,  and  two  or  three  times  in  the 
day  besides.  After  she  had  done  it  she  seemed  happier, 
and  her  eyes  were  not  so  dead. 

When  I  first  came  she  tried  to  hide  the  little  syringe 
and  what  she  did  with  it,  from  me ;  but  I  was  always 
with  her  in  the  bed-sitting-room,  and  soon  she  grew  not 
to  care.  I  dare  say  she  thought  me  too  small  to  notice, 
not  remembering  that  the  younger  the  child,  past  baby- 
hood, the  more  interested  is  it  in  everything  new  and 
strange. 

I  shared  the  bed  with  her,  and  slept  badly,  for  she 
mumbled  constantly  in  her  sleep,  and  often  groaned  or 


To   M.  L.  G.  61 

even  screamed.  She  would  say  over  and  over  again  in 
the  dark,  "  Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  what  have  I  come  to  ? 
What  am  I  good  for  ?  "  and  the  bed  would  shake  and 
creak  with  her  sobs.  But  if  I  spoke  she  never  answered, 
and  I  should  have  thought  she  was  talking  in  her  sleep, 
if  on  these  nights  of  her  agony  she  had  not  got  stealthily 
up,  and  lighting  a  match,  not  the  gas,  pricked  herself 
somewhere  with  the  needle.  Then  she  would  lie  down 
again  and  be  quiet. 

She  suffered  from  such  lassitude  in  the  morning  that, 
when  she  rose  to  dress  for  the  day,  which  was  seldom 
before  eleven  or  twelve  o'clock,  she  would  not  even 
trouble  to  make  coffee,  but  heating  some  milk  for  herself 
and  me,  into  her  portion  she  would  pour  nearly  half  a 
small  bottle  of  black  coffee  essence.  She  advised  me  to 
taste  this  when  I  complained  of  being  tired,  saying  it 
would  brace  me  up,  as  it  did  her ;  but  one  sip  was  enough. 
The  taste  was  very  bitter,  and  sugar  made  it  worse  rather 
than  improved  it. 

Lying  in  bed  late  was  not  the  same  penance  to  me 
that  it  had  been  when  with  Dearie  and  Boy,  for  now  I 
was  so  listless  that  I  cared  for  nothing,  and  it  did  not 
matter  whether  I  were  up  or  in  bed  all  day.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  the  Irishwoman  who  came  every  week,  we 
should  both  have  been  very  dirty,  but  she  was  a  brisk, 
wholesome  person  supporting  a  large  family  of  children, 
of  whom  she  continually  talked,  and  it  was  on  her  con- 
science to  rouse  Touey  to  "  a  sense  of  responsibility." 
She  pulled  the  sheets  and  pillow-cases  off  the  bed  to  wash 
them,  and  my  only  pleasure  was  to  go  with  her  up  a  little 
stairway  to  the  roof,  where  they,  and  other  people's 
things,  were  dried.  She  took  away  our  underclothes, 


62  To   M.  L.  G. 

too,  and  gave  us  clean  ones,  or  we  should  have  changed 
seldom.  Occasionally  she  mended  for  me,  too,  my  things 
which  had  come  from  the  house  where  1  used  to  live  with 
Dearie  and  Boy. 

It  was  not  in  me,  just  at  this  time,  to  be  very  fond  of 
any  one,  but  I  had  a  dim  sense  of  gratitude  and  affection 
for  Mrs.  Ryan,  and  it  was  faintly  cheering  to  see  her  ar- 
rive, even  though  she  scolded  me  for  a"  lazy  little  gyurl." 
After  a  few  weeks  with  Touey,  Mrs.  Ryan  brought  in,  on 
one  of  her  mornings,  a  basket.  "  This  is  for  you, 
mavourneen,"  she  said. 

In  the  basket  was  a  fat  white  ball  of  a  kitten,  with  mild 
blue  eyes  and  a  tiny  pink  nose.  Life  was  ebbing  low  in 
me,  but  my  blood  stirred  in  my  veins  at  the  sight  of  the 
little  live  thing ;  and  I  believe  that  the  interest  I  took  in 
it  saved  me  from  illness.  The  kitten  slept  in  its  basket 
by  the  side  of  the  bed  at  night,  but  when  I  woke  up  in 
the  gray  twilight,  which  was  all  the  morning  light  we 
had,  I  would  take  my  pet  up  and  play  with  it,  under  the 
sheet  and  blanket.  Before  it  was  given  me  by  Mrs. 
Ryan  I  watched  the  coming  of  day  by  the  glimmer  of  a 
bald  spot  in  the  midst  of  Touey 's  long,  grizzled  hair,  for 
she  lay  with  her  back  to  me.  I  had  hated  the  look  of  that 
yellowish  white  circle,  but  I  never  thought  of  it  again 
after  the  kitten  became  my  bedfellow. 

When  I  had  been  with  Touey  for  five  or  six  weeks,  one 
afternoon  while  we  were  eating  a  meal,  there  came  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  door,  a  thing  that  had  never  happened 
in  my  experience.  No  one  called  except  Mrs.  Ryan, 
who  had  a  key,  as  that  saved  Touey  getting  up  if  she 
were  in  bed. 

I  looked  at  Touey  to  see  what  she  would  do,  but  to  my 


To   M.  L.  G.  63 

surprise  she  did  not  seem  to  be  astonished.  Some  kind 
of  emotion  she  did  feel,  for  the  blood  slowly  and  faintly 
colored  her  waxy  skin.  Her  dead  eyes  lighted,  as  when 
a  lamp  is  held  at  the  door  of  a  dark  room,  and  she  got 
up,  quickly  for  her,  from  the  table. 

The  key  was  always  turned  in  the  lock,  so  that  nobody 
could  walk  in  from  outside.  Touey  twisted  it  squeakily 
back,  and  let  a  beautiful,  charmingly  dressed  woman 
come  in.  I  knew  at  once  that  this  was  the  original  of 
the  big  portrait  which  reigned  over  the  room. 

"  It's  like  the  black  hole  of  Calcutta  here  !  "  was  the 
first  thing  she  said. 

I  sat  still  at  the  table,  staring  at  the  beautiful  lady  with 
as  much  interest  as  I  was  able  to  feel  in  anything. 

"  So  this  is  the  child !  "  she  went  on,  when  Touey  said 
nothing  in  defense  of  the  room.  . 

"  Yes,  poor  little  thing,"  returned  Touey. 

"  Not  so  poor  as  she  would  have  been,  if  you  hadn't 
taken  her  in,"  said  the  other.  She  had  a  rich,  throaty 
voice,  but  did  not  modulate  her  words  as  musically  as 
Touey  did,  unless  she  stopped  to  think  about  it.  Touey 
had  the  slow,  grand  way  of  speaking  of  one  who  had 
once  been  a  good  actress. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Touey.  "  Perhaps  I  have  done 
her  harm.  But  I  meant  for  the  best.  There  seemed 
nothing  else  for  the  little  creature.  You  know  I  always 
liked  children,  though  I  had  no  way  with  them." 

They  talked  before  me  as  if  I  were  a  piece  of  furni- 
ture. 

The  beautiful  woman  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  near  the 
table,  and  what  light  there  was  fell  on  her  face.  She 
noticed  that  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  her. 


64  To   M.  L.  G. 

"  Are  you  thinking  that  I'm  like  your  friend  Touey  ?  " 
she  inquired,  speaking  in  the  tone  she  would  have  used 
to  a  grown-up  person. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.     "  Only  you  are  pretty." 

"  She  was  much  prettier  once.  Would  you  think  she's 
only  twelve  years  older  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered  shyly.  I  had  all  a 
child's  vagueness  about  differences  in  age  among  grown 
people. 

"  What's  the  good  of  talking  to  her  like  that,  Mag- 
gie ?  "  Touey  asked,  her  eyes  dead  and  her  face  pallid 
again. 

"  Only  for  something  to  say,"  Maggie  answered. 
"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  hair,  little  girl  ?  It's  dark 
on  your  head,  and  the  rest's  red.  Is  it  a  disease,  or  did 
you  try  to  bleach  it  ?  " 

"  My  mamma  bleached  it,"  I  said,  feeling  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable, for  beautiful  as  the  lady  was,  she  had  hard  eyes. 

"  Oh  !  "  She  turned  to  Touey,  ignoring  me  again. 
"  Have  you  heard  the  latest  news  of  her  mother  ?  " 

"  I  know  Belle  A went  to  call  on  her  at  the  hos- 
pital. They  were  talking  about  it  last  night,  over  there." 
She  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  theatre. 

"  Nothing  else  ?  " 

"  No.     They  hadn't  seen  Belle  since." 

"  She  came  to  my  house  this  morning  on  business. 
That's  what  made  me  think  of  looking  in  on  you  to-day. 
Belle  said  the  poor  girl  was  well  enough  to  be  moved, 
but  in  a  queer  state,  almost  like  a  half-witted  person ; 
doesn't  even  take  any  interest  in  her  looks.  Wouldn't 
hear  anything  about — this'1  They  both  looked  at  me, 
Maggie  with  interest,  Touey  wearily. 


To   M.  L.  G.  65 

"  I  thought  she'd  have  been  crazy  to  get  the  little  one 
back,  by  this  time,  or  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it,"  said 
Touey.  "  Not  that  the  little  thing  is  any  trouble.  I  like 
having  her,  for  my  own  sake.  But  this  is  no  place  for  a 
child." 

"  She  looks  sick,"  Maggie  said.  "  No  wonder.  No- 
body but  you  could  stand  it  here." 

"  It  agrees  with  me,"  Touey  replied  hastily,  as  if  she 
were  afraid  of  being  advised  to  change.  "  As  well  as 
anything  does,"  she  added. 

"  If  the  kiddie  dies  in  this  den  of  yours,  you  may  get 
the  police  in,"  said  her  sister.  "  I'll  take  her  for  a  while, 
if  you  like.  I  wouldn't  mind.  It  might  amuse  me.  I'm 
so  sick  and  tired  of  everything,  I'm  almost  scared." 

"  What  —  scared  that  you'll  get  like  me?  "  Touey  said, 
with  a  smile  that  showed  black  teeth  —  one  of  the  reasons 
for  her  looking  old. 

"  No,  I'd  never  come  to  that,  whatever  happened,"  the 
other  answered  quickly.  "  But  there  are  —  several  things. 
I  hate  my  life.  The  more  money  I  make,  the  more  I 
hate  it,  because  my  money  doesn't  give  me  the  things  I 
want." 

"  I  know  how  that  is,"  Touey  muttered.  "  I  could 
have  plenty  of  money,  if  I  asked  for  it.  But  I  don't  care, 
I  have  enough  to  get  me  everything  I  need." 

Maggie  threw  her  a  strange  look,  with  raised  eye- 
brows. Then  she  turned  to  me.  "  Would  you  like  to 
come  and  live  at  my  home  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  I've  got  a 
whole  house  for  you  to  run  about  in,  with  plenty  of  light 
and  air,  and  a  back  yard  where  you  can  play.  I'll  make 
a  pretty  little  girl  of  you,  maybe." 

"  Can  I  take  my  white  kitten  ?  "  I  asked. 


66  To  M.  L.  G. 

"  Yes,  for  all  I  care." 

I  looked  at  Touey,  realizing  faintly  that  she  had  been 
kind,  as  kind  as  she  knew  how  to  be.  "  Do  you  want  me 
to  go  ?  " 

Her  strange  face  had  an  extraordinary  sweetness  of 
expression  as  she  smiled  at  me,  almost  gratefully,  before 
answering.  "  Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  I  think  it 
would  be  the  best  thing  for  you  to  go,  and  my  sister 
Maggie  will  take  care  of  you,  better  than  I  can." 

"  You  may  call  me  '  Auntie,' "  the  beautiful  woman 
suggested.  "  I  guess  I'll  take  her  this  afternoon,  other- 
wise I  may  change  my  mind." 

"  I'll  get  her  things  ready,"  said  Touey,  pulling  herself 
up  heavily.  But  Maggie  stopped  her.  "  You  needn't ! 
If  the  rest  are  like  the  samples,  I  wouldn't  be  seen  dead 
with  her  wearing  any  of  them.  And  heavens,  that  hair ! 
I  shall  have  to  take  a  hack  to  get  her  home.  There's 
one  thing,  I  can  afford  it." 

A  few  minutes  later,  Maggie  led  me  down-stairs,  with 
my  head  wrapped  in  a  scarf  of  hers,  and  the  kitten  in  its 
basket  on  my  arm.  I  had  not  kissed  Touey  good-bye, 
yet  I  felt  sad  and  even  reluctant  to  leave  her  at  the  last. 
I  had  but  little  curiosity  as  to  my  next  home.  I  suppose 
I  had  become  too  anaemic  to  care. 

I  never  saw  Touey  again,  but  a  few  weeks  later  Mrs, 
Ryan  found  her  dead  in  bed.  Maggie,  whom  I  knew  by 

that  time  as  Madame  B ,  the  beauty  specialist,  told 

me  her  sister  had  died  suddenly,  and  I  think  she  arranged 
a  funeral.  But  it  was  years  before  I  ever  heard  any 
more  about  Touey.  Even  then,  I  never  learned  exactly 
how  she  had  fallen  into  that  state  of  degradation,  while 
her  younger  sister  thrived.  Nor  could  any  one  tell  me 


To   M.  L.  G.  67 

why  her  real  name  had  been  turned  into  Touey.  All 
that  people  could  say  was  that  once  she  had  been  a  fine 
actress,  and  had  had  good  opportunities.  I  have  always 
believed  that  she  was  trying  to  kill  some  gnawing  mem- 
ory. And  somehow  I  think  of  her  often  lately. 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  SUPPOSE  a  child  cannot  be  sad  for  long.  I  was 
not,  though  I  had  moments  of  dumb  yearning  for 
Boy's  kind  eyes,  and  the  feel  of  his  arm  round  my 
neck,  while  I  sat  on  his  lap,  listening  to  fairy  stories.  If 
I  walked  behind  a  young,  blonde  woman  in  the  street, 
and  saw  the  sun  touch  her  hair,  my  heart  flew  back  to 
Dearie,  and  I  was  sick  with  longing  for  her  petting,  for 
the  sound  of  the  "  Love  Birds'  "  laughter  together,  in  the 
hot  room  of  the  skylight.  But  the  pain  would  pass,  and 
the  luxury  of  my  new  life  would  take  hold  of  me  again. 

Madame's  house  was  like  what  I  imagined  Paradise  to 
be,  judging  by  the  rapturous  descriptions  of  a  future  state 
I  had  heard  from  Rose  and  Maud.  Heaven,  as  pictured 
by  negroes,  blazes  with  color,  and  Rose,  in  comparatively 
benevolent  moments,  loved  to  paint  for  my  envy  the 
house  of  many  mansions  in  which  she  expected  to  be  an 
honored  guest.  It  was  to  have  the  loveliest  silk  walls 
and  curtains  imaginable,  and  all  the  furniture  was  to  be 
of  gold.  Almost  I  believed  that  I  was  entering  celestial 
regions,  when  Madame  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me 
through  her  newly  varnished  front  door. 

Outside,  nothing  was  new  except  the  door  and  the 
paint ;  but  everything  was  new  within,  from  basement  to 
attic. 

It  was  darkening  to  twilight  when  we  arrived,  in  a 
cab ;  for  after  leaving  Touey's,  Madame  had  shopped  for 
me  till  the  closing  hour  of  the  big  department  store 

68 


To   M.  L.  G.  69 

where  she  bought  everything.  She  fitted  me  out  with  a 
ready-made  wardrobe,  each  garment  good  and  expen- 
sive, after  its  kind ;  for  not  only  was  she  generous,  but 
her  vanity  made  her  dislike  asking  a  shop  assistant  for 
anything  that  was  cheap.  "  I  work  hard  for  my  success 
and  my  money,"  she  was  fond  of  remarking, "  and  I  have 
a  right  to  enjoy  spending.  It's  one  of  the  few  pleasures 
I  have." 

I  think  it  was  a  real  delight  for  her  to  see  my  awed 
admiration  of  her  house  and  its  decorations.  Her  great 
grievance  was  that,  although  she  was  handsomer  than 
most  of  the  rich  clients  who  paid  her  to  give  them 
beauty,  and  though  she  had  begun  to  make  money 
enough  to  compete  with  them  in  clothes  and  jewels,  no 
women  of  society  would  have  anything  to  do  with  her 
outside  business  hours.  Actresses  and  other  Bohemian 
women  would  gladly  have  been  her  friends,  but  those 
she  did  not  want.  She  wanted  only  the  best,  or  what 
she  thought  was  the  best.  Less  than  this  she  would  not 
have,  preferring  glorious  isolation.  Therefore  she  made 
few  friends,  and  was  always  alone  when  her  business  was 
done,  except  for  one  man,  a  German  Jew,  who  was 
clever,  and  knew  about  pictures  and  music. 

I  learned  these  peculiarities,  and  others,  as  time  went 
on,  for  Madame  opened  her  heart  to  me,  as  freely  as  if  I 
had  been  a  grown  woman  ;  all  her  troubles,  all  her  am- 
bitions and  disappointments  she  recounted ;  everything 
except  her  early  history,  and  the  story  of  her  elder  sister, 
Touey.  Without  doubt,  it  was  for  the  sake  of  compan- 
ionship, and  the  relief  of  having  some  one  always  ready 
to  be  talked  to,  that  she  kept  me  on. 

I  am  sure  she  had  known  few  happier  hours  since  sue- 


70  To  M.  L.  G. 

cess  enabled  her  to  buy  and  to  decorate  this  house,  than 
that  in  which  she  led  me  from  room'  to  room,  mention- 
ing what  she  had  paid  for  the  furniture  of  each.  Money 
was  an  unknown  quantity  to  me,  but  I  drew  in  a  vague 
impression  of  splendor  and  luxury.  I  was  flattered,  too, 
in  a  childish  way,  that  she  should  think  me  capable  of 
understanding,  just  as  I  was  flattered  in  months  and 
years  to  come,  with  her  frank  confidence  concerning 
men  who  admired  and  made  strange  proposals  to  her ; 
men  "  society  women  "  angled  after  in  vain. 

Madame's  house  was  on  the  fringe  of  a  good  neighbor- 
hood, in  a  quiet  cross  street,  midway  between  up-town 
and  down-town ;  for  that,  she  explained,  was  necessary 
for  business.  Thus  she  caught  both  publics. 

Her  own  taste,  she  said,  was  too  Oriental  to  be  trusted. 
She  had  given  a  decorator  "  carte  blanche  "  to  make  her 
place  pretty,  and  attractive  to  women.  Evidently  he  was 
a  clever  decorator.  He  had  known  what  beauty  of  sur- 
roundings to  give  ladies  in  search  of  beauty  for  their 
faces.  Madame's  great  speciality  was  to  have  all  her 
preparations  smothered  in  roses.  Bags  were  of  rose 
brocaded  silk,  tied  with  rose-colored  ribbons.  Paper 
boxes  for  powder  were  patterned  with  roses.  Bottles 
had  golden  roses  pasted  on  their  sides.  Creams  and 
elixirs  were  perfumed  with  roses.  The  whole  house 
smelled  of  roses  ;  and  the  two  first  floors,  with  the  show- 
room, reception  and  consulting  rooms,  and  all  the  little 
cubicles  for  different  processes  of  beautifying,  had  rose 
pink  carpets,  rose  silk  curtains,  and  wall-papers  trailing 
roses. 

In  the  basement  the  work-girls  dined.  There  were 
more  than  a  dozen  of  these  young  women.  Those  who 


To   M.  L.  G.  71 

attended  the  clients  were  daintily  uniformed  in  pink  and 
white,  and  were  chosen  for  the  beauty  of  their  complex- 
ion and  hair.  They  were  called  the  "  young  ladies." 
The  others  were  the  "  girls."  There  were  two  dining- 
rooms  down-stairs  :  one  for  the  "  young  ladies,"  one  for 
the  "  girls,"  whose  work  was  the  filling  of  bottles  and 
boxes  and  bags,  the  pasting-on  of  labels,  the  tying  of 
ribbons,  and  arranging  of  shelves  in  the  show-room.  Up 
at  the  top  of  the  house  these  young  women  did  their 
work,  in  a  big  front  room  ;  and  at  the  back  was  another 
room,  full  of  exquisite  smells,  where  Madame  herself 
superintended  the  mixing  of  her  patent  preparations,  the 
secret  things  which  were  making  her  name  and  fortune 
as  a  beauty  doctor.  Never  would  she  trust  any  of  these 
secret  recipes  even  to  her  head  assistant.  She  was  afraid 
that  they  might  be  stolen,  and  that  the  thief  would  start 
a  rival  establishment. 

In  her  pamphlets  and  other  advertisements  she  assured 
the  public  that  she  had  obtained  her  "  marvellous  speciali- 
ties "  in  the  Far  East,  where,  in  travelling,  she  had  "  vis- 
ited the  harems  of  Eastern  sovereigns  and  learned  the 
secrets  of  women  famous  for  their  alluring  charms  of  face 
and  figure."  But  her  Jewish  friend,  Mr.  Heinrich,  and  I 
knew  that  she  had  never  been  farther  east  than  Nan- 
tucket,  where  once  she  had  spent  part  of  a  summer. 

On  the  top  floor  there  was  also  a  small  kitchen,  which 
Madame  had  installed  there  for  her  own  benefit,  with  her 
own  cook  in  attendance  —  a  more  accomplished  and 
highly-paid  cook  than  the  sharp-tongued  old  woman  who 
worked  for  the  girls,  in  the  basement.  Madame's  pri- 
vate suite  was  on  the  third  floor,  above  the  pink-cur- 
tained cubicles,  and  there  I  lived  with  her,  not  being  en- 


72  To   M.  L.  G. 

couraged  to  wander  up  or  down  during  business  hours, 
between  nine  and  five,  or  from  nine  till  two  on  Saturdays. 
She  did  not  like  me  to  talk  much  with  the  "  girls,"  or 
even  with  the  "  young  ladies,"  fearing  perhaps  that  they 
might  "  pump  "  me  about  her  affairs,  and  knowing  also 
that  their  conversation  was  not  always  suitable  for  a 
child's  ears.  As  it  happened,  I  had  already  heard  most 
things  supposed  to  be  unsuitable  for  a  child ;  but  as  they 
were  not  forbidden,  and  nobody  had  ever  cared  whether 
I  knew  them  or  not,  I  had  paid  slight  attention.  Things 
which  Madame  would  have  considered  "  disgusting " 
went  in  at  one  ear  with  me,  and  out  at  the  other,  when 
they  were  mentioned  in  my  hearing. 

Madame's  suite  consisted  of  a  bedroom  with  a  bath, 
a  dining-room  and  a  small  parlor  which  she  called  her 
boudoir,  without  any  clear  idea  of  the  word's  meaning  or 
pronunciation.  Touey  would  have  pronounced  it  per- 
fectly, after  hearing  it  correctly  spoken  once,  but  Madame 
had  no  more  music  than  temperament,  therefore  it  was 
difficult  for  her  to  remember  the  sound  of  words.  Her 
rooms  imitated  Marie  Antoinette's  in  the  Petit  Trianon, 
how  crudely  I  have  only  found  out  in  the  last  few  years, 
and  she  was  proud  of  them.  It  was  a  real  grief  to  her 
that  none  of  the  "  swell  women  "  she  treated  ever  came 
to  visit  her  there,  socially.  She  would  sit  in  front  of 
her  expensive  mirror,  and  gaze  at  herself,  with  tears 
in  her  big  eyes.  "  I  am  beautiful ! "  she  would  say. 
"  Look  at  me.  They  get  their  complexions  and  busts 
out  of  my  bottles.  I  get  mine  from  God.  Yet  what 
good  are  my  beauties  to  me?  What  good  are  these 
rooms,  or  my  pretty  gowns,  or  anything  I've  got  in  the 
world  ?  " 


To  M.  L.  G.  73 

But  her  things  were  of  great  good  to  me,  and  I  was 
not  half  grateful  enough  for  them.  Like  the  little  animal 
I  was  (and  almost  all  children  of  that  age  are  animals)  I 
soon  began  to  take  everything  I  had  from  Madame  for 
granted.  The  delicious  bath  in  a  large  porcelain  tub, 
such  as  I  had  never  dreamed  of;  the  soft  bed,  all  to  my- 
self, in  a  white  and  gold  crib,  with  pink  blankets,  which 
Madame  bought  for  me  the  day  I  came  to  her ;  the  pretty 
clothes,  the  good  food,  the  sunshine  in  the  little  back 
yard,  and  toys  to  play  with  there.  In  an  incredibly 
short  time  I  let  the  old  life  of  sordidness  drop  out  of  my 
thoughts,  as  if  it  had  been  lived  by  some  one  else  who 
had  told  me  about  it.  I  accepted  everything  I  had  as 
my  right,  though  I  had  no  claim  on  Madame.  It  was 
only  by  the  accident  of  her  fancying  me  that  any  of  these 
luxuries  had  come  to  be  mine.  Worse  than  all,  I  never 
loved  her.  I  admired  her  beauty,  and  when  it  occurred 
to  me,  I  was  spasmodically  grateful ;  but  even  as  a  very 
small  child  I  was  curiously  critical  of  her,  I  don't  know 
why,  unless  it  may  have  been  because  she  did  not  love 
me  —  because  I  felt  instinctively  that  she  made  a  con- 
venience of  me.  I  was  chaperon,  companion,  confidant ; 
I  could  be  roused  at  any  time  of  night  to  be  told  things 
which  Madame  wished  to  talk  about,  things  of  no  sig- 
nificance to  a  child. 

My  affairs  never  interested  her,  and  if  she  were  anxious 
that  I  should  be  well,  it  was  because  she  had  a  morbid 
fear  of  any  contagious  disease  in  the  house,  which  might 
injure  her  business  or  which  she  might  take  from  me. 
She  was  frank  about  all  this.  I  could  not  help  knowing 
how  she  felt ;  and  though  she  pretended  a  great  deal  to 
her  clients,  she  never  pretended  to  me.  The  fact  that 


74  To   M.  L.  G. 

she  need  not  pretend  was  one  reason  why  I  was  of  im- 
portance. She  liked  to  be  called  "  Auntie,"  as  "  Ma- 
dame "  was  her  professional  name ;  but  she  did  not  seem 
like  an  aunt,  and  the  word  always  came  from  my  lips 
with  an  effort. 

To  her  clients  she  pretended  to  be  older  than  she  was, 
though  it  must  have  pained  her  vanity.  She  was  about 
thirty-six  when  I  went  to  her,  I  think ;  but  she  would 
tell  ladies  of  over  forty,  in  strict  confidence,  that  she  was 
of  their  age,  or  more,  and  that  she  kept  her  hair  thick, 
her  bust  firm,  and  her  complexion  without  a  line  or  spot, 
all  by  the  use  of  her  own  "  discoveries." 

She  would  describe  to  me  her  scenes  with  these  women, 
and  I  would  listen  but  vaguely,  taking  in  the  sense  of 
her  stories,  but  feeling  the  bitterness  with  which  she 
related  them.  The  night  I  left  Touey,  Madame  cut  off 
my  hair  at  the  dark  line  which  had  grown  out,  and  the 
long,  red-gold  curls  shorn  away  were  used  in  the  special 
department  for  making  up  what  Madame  called  "  sani- 
tary transformations."  The  hair  she  sold  was  guaranteed 
to  be  healthy,  and  Madame  charged  enormous  prices  for 
it,  as  she  did  for  all  her  preparations  and  contrivances. 
Her  theory  was,  that  if  women  were  made  to  pay  high 
for  things,  they  valued  them  accordingly,  and  perhaps 
she  was  right.  In  any  case,  she  was  sought  after  by  the 
most  fashionable  women  in  New  York,  as  well  as  the 
actresses  and  demi  monde.  She  made  medicated  masks, 
and  straps  to  smooth  out  wrinkles,  and  some  sort  of 
depilatory  which  was  supposed  to  be  permanent  in  its 
effects.  There  was  a  glass  machine  with  a  rubber  bulb 
to  be  squeezed,  which  caused  the  bust  to  grow ;  but  one 
of  the  work-girls  used  this  invention  on  herself,  and  pro- 


To  M.  L.  G.  75 

duced,  or  thought  she  produced,  some  strange  disease,, 
which  frightened  the  other  employees,  and  made  them 
whisper  ominously  together.  Besides  these,  there  were 
fifty  other  patents :  things  to  take  down  flesh  and  keep 
the  chin  firm ;  to  change  the  shape  of  the  nose ;  and  to 
fill  out  hollows  in  sunken  cheeks,  or  remove  the  shadows 
from  tired  eyes.  But  the  most  inviolate  secret  of  all  was 
the  use  of  raw  veal  to  brighten  faded  complexions  and 
prevent  wrinkles.  Neither  the  work-girls,  nor  the  "  young 
ladies  "  were  in  the  secret,  for  only  Madame  herself  gave 
the  treatment,  in  the  biggest  of  the  cubicles,  with  the 
door  locked.  She  charged  ten  dollars  for  the  cure,  there- 
fore it  was  vital  to  keep  people  from  finding  out,  because 
veal  was  cheap,  and  could  be  applied  at  home.  Even 
those  undergoing  the  treatment  did  not  know  what  was 
put  on  their  faces,  except  that  it  was  something  cold  and 
damp,  with  strips  of  linen  laid  on  top,  highly  perfumed 
with  attar  of  rose.  Without  the  perfume,  they  might 
have  smelt  the  raw  meat;  and  in  a  bright  light  they 
might  have  seen  it ;  but  the  effect  of  the  medicine  was 
supposed  to  be  enhanced  by  darkness,  therefore  the  pink 
cubicle  was  unlit,  except  by  a  transom  over  the  door. 
The  patient  was  made  to  lie  on  a  sofa  for  two  hours, 
with  strips  of  lean  veal  on  her  forehead,  nose  and  cheeks  ; 
then  the  juicy  dampness  would  be  wiped  away  with  a 
soft  rag ;  some  soothing  lotion  of  Madame's  was  sprayed 
on  the  face  to  destroy  the  telltale  odor ;  and  last  of  all, 
a  velvety  powder  was  dusted  on.  The  veal  was  intended 
to  supply  some  valuable  quality  lacking  in  the  skin  after 
the  first  youth  of  a  woman ;  and  Madame  must  have  had 
faith  in  it,  for  it  was  the  only  one  of  her  prescriptions 
which  she  used  for  herself.  She  employed  it  with  great 


76  To   M.  L.  G. 

care,  in 'her  own  room,  once  every  week,  in  the  even- 
ing before  bedtime;  and  when  she  had  known  me  long 
enough  to  be  sure  that  I  could  be  trusted  never  to  repeat 
anything,  she  told  me  the  whole  history  of  the  treatment. 

This  trustworthiness  was  hardly  a  virtue,  for  I  never 
felt  the  temptation,  even  as  a  very  small  child,  to  be 
loose-tongued  about  myself  or  others.  Occasionally, 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  made  up  dramatic  stories  about 
my  own  doings,  because  I  wanted  the  things  I  described 
to  happen ;  and  the  next  best  thing  was  to  tell  them  to 
some  one  as  if  they  had  happened.  Otherwise  I  was 
reticent.  I  cultivated  the  quality  of  reserve,  when  I 
heard  it  praised  by  Madame  to  Mr.  Heinrich,  who  was 
faintly  interested  in  me,  as  Madame's  "  experiment." 

Things  I  have  thought  of  most,  or  have  felt  most 
deeply,  have  always  been  the  things  hardest  for  me  to 
speak  of;  and  I  do  not  believe  I  could  have  told  you 
intelligibly  what  I  am  trying  to  tell  you  now,  except  in 
this  way,  on  paper. 

Often  I  longed  in  those  days  to  question  Madame 
about  Dearie,  but  the  words  would  not  come.  Just  when 
I  had  brought  myself  to  the  point  I  would  tremble,  and 
all  my  muscles  would  be  tense.  I  would  have  a  sensa- 
tion as  if  a  hand  were  pressed  over  my  lips,  and  I  was 
forced  to  be  silent,  even  if  Madame  were  waiting  for  me 
to  speak. 

Of  her  own  accord,  after  I  had  been  in  the  house  for 
about  two  months,  she  told  me  one  day  that  my  mother 
was  better,  and  had  left  the  hospital. 

"  Will  she  come  and  take  me  ?  "  I  asked,  half  hope- 
fully, half  fearfully. 

"  Oh,  dear  no  !  "  said  Madame.     "  It  seems  she  can't 


To   M.  L.  G.  77 

bear  to  hear  your  name.  It  makes  her  too  sad.  She's 
gone  out  West  again,  to  visit  an  old  friend  of  hers  who 
thinks  she  can  get  her  into  a  stock  company.  I  expect 
she'll  marry  before  long.  She's  just  the  kind  that  does 
—  and  I  say  it's  the  best  compliment  a  man  or  woman 
can  pay  to  the  first ;  it  shows  the  sample  was  a  success." 

Madame's  theorizing  was  unintelligible  as  Greek  to 
me;  but  I  pondered  over  her  words  so  earnestly  and 
often,  that  they  were  imprinted  on  my  mind.  Always  I 
was  waiting,  after  that,  for  other  news  to  come,  though 
the  same  dumbness  bound  me  in  silence.  Then  three  or 
four  months  passed,  and  no  echo  came  back  from  that 
vague  "  West "  which  had  swallowed  up  my  pretty  mother. 
I  was  forgetting  to  wonder,  when  Madame,  reading  a 
theatrical  paper  she  took  in,  exclaimed,  "  There !  I  told 
you  so  !  Your  mother's  married.  Another  actor,  of 
course  —  some  Western  man,  I  suppose.  I  never  saw  his 
name.  They  won't  see  New  York  again." 

By  and  by  some  insignificant  client  of  Madame's,  who 
wished  to  rejuvenate  her  complexion  after  a  season  of 
"  one  night  stands,"  brought  further  tidings  of  Dearie. 
The  two  had  met  in  a  town  where  Dearie  was  playing 
with  a  company  of  "  barnstormers,"  managed  by  her 
new  husband.  Madame's  client,  who  knew  the  old 
name  of  "  Love  Birds,"  asked  how  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry  again  so  soon  —  she  who  nearly  went 
insane  from  grief  at  the  death  of  her  Boy. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  had  to  have  some  one  to  love 
me,  so  it  was  better  to  be  married,"  was  the  answer, 
which  I  have  never  forgotten. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Dearie.  She  could  not  live 
without  petting.  Yes,  it  was  better  that  she  should 


y8  To  M.  L.  G. 

marry,  for  she  had  to  love  and  be  loved.  A  child  was  to 
her  an  accident.  A  man  was  her  world.  The  new  hus- 
band drank,  and  struck  her  sometimes  in  the  intervals  of 
loving,  I  learned  a  few  years  later.  Then,  there  would 
be  reconciliations,  and  so  it  went  on,  till  he  died,  and  the 
next  week  she  married  the  leading  man  of  the  barn- 
storming company. 

To  me,  she  never  wrote  or  sent  any  message,  though 
she  must  have  heard,  or  could  have  heard  if  she  had 
cared,  that  Madame  had  informally  adopted  me.  I  felt 
no  bitterness  towards  her,  for  I  knew  too  little  about  other 
mothers,  or  what  the  love  of  a  woman  born  to  be  a 
mother  might  be  like  —  such  a  woman  as  my  dear  lady 
of  California.  And  I  feel  no  bitterness  in  recalling  her. 
I  understand  that  to  Dearie  the  thought  of  me  meant 
sad  memories,  and  sadness  was  as  death  to  her  heart  of  a 
butterfly.  Now  she  is  dead.  She  died  of  pneumonia, 
far  off  in  the  West,  when  I  was  fourteen.  But  that  was 
after  Madame,  too,  had  gone  out  of  my  life. 

Though  I  knew  that  Madame  did  not  like  me  to  be 
with  the  girls  in  the  workroom,  I  was  tempted  there 
sometimes,  when  she  was  busy  in  her  consulting  room, 
or  giving  the  veal  treatment,  advertised  as  the  "  Sultana 
Rose  Cure,"  or  in  superintending  the  so-called  "  mustard 
and  electric,"  an  application  to  the  spine,  which  was  sup- 
posed to  renew  the  youth  of  a  patient  in  a  mysterious 
and  marvellous  way. 

When  I  first  came  to  the  house  I  was  a  novelty.  The 
girls  wanted  to  see  me,  to  find  out  who  I  was,  and  why 
Madame  had  taken  me  to  live  with  her.  I  picked  up 
the  idea,  from  their  sly  hints  to  each  other,  that  they 
believed  me  to  be  her  own  child ;  but  the  little  that  they 


To  M.  L.  G.  79 

were  able  to  tear  from  me  about  Dearie  and  Boy  must 
have  shattered  this  theory  and  disappointed  their  desire 
to  dig  up  some  scandalous  secret. 

Later,  they  tried  to  catechize  me  about  Madame's  life 
after  business  hours.  Did  she  dine  out  with  gentlemen  ? 
Did  many  "  gentleman  friends  "  come  to  see  her  ?  Did 
she  get  presents  of  jewellery  ?  Did  she  go  to  the  theatre 
and  stay  out  to  supper  nearly  every  night  ? 

Instinctively,  I  was  loyal  to  Madame.  The  little  there 
was  to  tell  concerning  Mr.  Heinrich,  I  did  not  tell,  I  did 
not  wish  to  tell,  though  the  girls  bribed  me  with  candy 
and  compliments.  They,  escaped  from  rosy  bags  and 
boxes,  saw  Madame  sometimes  driving  in  the  park,  at 
the  fashionable  hour,  in  the  handsome  Victoria  she  had 
bought ;  and,  though  she  was  never  disagreeable  in  her 
manner  to  them,  they  seemed  maliciously  pleased  that, 
in  spite  of  her  fine  "  turn-out  "  and  beautiful  clothes  from 
Paris,  none  of  the  grand  ladies  whose  names  were  in  the 
newspapers  ever  bowed  to  her  in  passing. 

Even  when  they  must  have  realized  that  there  was  very 
little  to  "  get  out  of  me,"  the  girls  used  to  try  and  lure 
me  into  the  room,  perhaps  because  my  imitations  of 
animals,  and  of  the  two  servants,  and  the  "  faces  "  I  could 
make,  amused  them;  or  perhaps  because  there  was  a 
spice  in  tempting  me  to  disobey  the  mistress  of  the 
house. 

As  for  me,  having  nothing  to  do,  it  was  an  excitement 
to  sit  on  the  floor  of  the  workroom,  when  Madame  was 
safely  out  of  the  way,  listening  to  the  girls'  gossip,  while 
I  toyed  with  cut  ends  of  ribbon  and  scraps  of  the  famous 
rose-patterned  brocade  or  paper. 

Voices  would  drop  to  a  whisper  when  a  group  dis- 


8o  To   M.  L.  G. 

cussed  a  topic  of  peculiar  interest,  and  then,  because  I 
guessed  it  was  something  I  ought  not  to  hear,  I  hung  on 
their  words  with  open  ears.  If  their  favorite  conversa- 
tion was  as  "  disgusting  "  as  Madame  pronounced  it,  the 
worst  things  they  said  must  have  passed  me  by,  for  I  got 
no  lasting  harm  from  workroom  chatter.  All  that  lin- 
gered in  my  mind,  and,  maybe,  influenced  my  life,  was 
the  girls'  tireless  talk  about  love  and  lovers,  their  own 
and  other  people's. 

At  the  old  boarding-house,  my  first  home,  the  young 
actresses  who  used  to  meet  in  each  other's  rooms  hardly 
ever  dwelt  with  interest  on  the  subject  of  men,  except  as 
newspaper  critics,  theatrical  managers,  or  actors,  good  or 
bad.  Their  never-failing  topic  was  "  shop  "  :  the  "  hits  " 
they  had  made,  or  hoped  to  make,  the  "  notices "  they 
got  for  their  acting,  the  way  in  which  "  stars  "  behaved  to 
them  on  the  stage.  Love  was  apparently  an  affair  of 
secondary  importance  to  those  girls  of  the  theatre,  but  to 
these  who  earned  their  living  differently,  it  was  every- 
thing. They  all  had  "  gentleman  friends  "  who  took 
them  out  in  the  evening,  and  their  tongues  never  flagged 
in  the  repetition  of  the  word  "  he  —  he  —  he." 

I  voted  this  tiresome  at  first ;  but  by  and  by  I  felt  in 
it  the  far-off  call  of  romance.  I  began  to  ask  myself 
what  there  was  in  "  being  in  love,"  which  interested  all 
these  grown-up  girls  so  intensely.  "  Boys,"  as  they 
called  their  own  special  young  men,  in  telling  of  their 
conquests,  were  of  incredible  importance.  The  love  they 
talked  of  was  not  the  same  as  the  love  of  fathers  and 
mothers,  or  of  one  girl  for  another.  It  belonged  entirely 
to  "  boys,"  creatures  with  short  hair  who  wore  trousers, 
and  could  have  hair  growing  on  their  faces  if  they  liked, 


To   M.  L.  G.  81 

when  they  were  big.  I  wondered  so  much  and  so  often, 
that  at  last  the  mysterious  subject  of  love  and  boys, 
which  seemed  to  be  inseparable,  was  at  the  back  of  all 
my  thoughts,  like  the  fragment  of  a  tune  one  tries  to 
catch. 

I  found  it  interesting  to  know  that  I  was  a  girl,  and 
that  there  were  boys  in  the  world;  that  just  because 
they  were  different,  boys  would  care  about  me  in  some 
odd  way,  because  I  was  a  girl,  and  that  I  would  care 
about  them. 

I  had  never  wasted  much  thought  upon  boys,  when  I 
lived  at  Ma's,  or  with  my  father  and  mother,  though  I 
often  played  with  them  in  the  street.  The  only  differ- 
ence I  knew  was  that  boys  were  stronger  and  rougher, 
and  made  fun  of  girls  for  liking  dolls.  Now  I  saw  boys 
with  new  eyes,  but  instinctively  I  scorned  the  little  ones 
of  my  own  age.  They  did  not  exist  for  me.  They 
hardly  seemed  to  be  boys.  But  the  house  next  door 
was  taken  at  this  time  by  a  widow  with  two  sons.  The 
elder  was  twelve,  which  for  me,  at  six,  was  to  be  almost 
grown  up ;  and  the  younger  was  ten.  They  both  had 
bullet  heads,  with  very  short  brown  hair,  bright,  bold 
eyes,  and  blunt  noses.  They  were  a  good  deal  alike, 
but  it  was  with  Lenny,  the  elder,  that  I  decided  to  fall 
in  love,  perhaps  because  he  was  already  in  long  trousers, 
like  a  man,  and  his  brother  Freddy  in  short  knicker- 
bockers. 

The  first  time  I  saw  these  boys  was  before  they  had 
come  to  live  in  the  house  next  door,  and  while  the 
furniture  was  arriving  in  big  vans.  They  stood  in  the 
street,  looking  on,  whistling,  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets. 


82  To  M.  L.  G. 

I  did  not  know  their  names  then,  but  afterwards  I 
heard  them  shouting  to  each  other  in  the  back  yard, 
which  was  exactly  like  Madame's  and  most  of  the  other 
houses  on  our  side  of  the  street.  There  were  high 
wooden  fences  between  the  yards,  and  the  day  of  the 
moving  in,  being  Saturday,  the  boys  were  at  home. 
They  climbed  up  on  their  side  of  the  fence  to  look  over, 
staring  gravely  at  me.  It  was  early  summer,  and  I  was 
playing  menagerie  with  some  earthworms  I  had  dug  up 
out  of  the  damp  ground.  I  called  the  worms  snakes,  and 
kept  them  in  penny  wooden  tubs.  (Afterwards  one 
died  and  dried  into  a  crisp  little  corpse,  because  I  had 
covered  the  tub,  and  forgotten  it  for  days.  I  repented 
my  neglect  with  sick  horror,  and  felt  that  I  was  a  murderess, 
who  would  perhaps  go  to  hell  —  the  hell  of  red  fire  which 
Rose  described.) 

"  You're  a  funny  girl,  playing  with  worms,"  Lenny 
called  down  from  his  high  perch. 

"  They're  not  worms,"  I  said.  "  They're  snakes. 
This  is  a  menagerie." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Lenny.  "  Did  you  ever  see  a  menag- 
erie ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  was  proud  to  answer  truthfully.  "  My  father 
took  me  to  one." 

"  Where's  your  father  now  ?  "  asked  Freddy. 

"  He's  dead,"  I  returned,  stiffening. 

"  Is  it  your  mother  you  live  with  ? "  he  went  on. 
"  Our  girl  says  she's  a  quack." 

"  I  don't  know  what  a  quack  is,  but  she  isn't  it,"  I  as- 
sured him.  "  I  stay  with  her.  I'm  not  any  relation,  but 
she's  my  aunt." 

"  She  can't  be  your  aunt,  stupid,  if  you're  no  relation," 


To   M.  L.  G.  83 

Freddy  sneered,  while  Lenny  kept  silence,  looking  with 
more  interest  at  the  yard  than  at  me.  It  was  a  mean 
strip  of  grass,  but  Madame  had  planted  roses  to  climb  up 
the  fence,  and  there  were  no  clothes-lines,  as  in  the  next 
dooryard.  She  hated  unsightly  things,  and  went  to  the 
expense  of  sending  her  linen  to  a  laundry. 

"  She  is  my  aunt ! "  I  persisted,  though  I  knew  she 
was  not.  But  I  felt  that  Madame  and  I  were  being 
attacked. 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  And  anyhow,  you're  Protestants. 
I  wouldn't  be  a  Protestant !  "  Freddy  taunted  me. 

Suddenly  I  hated  him,  and  longed  to  do  him  a  mis- 
chief. But  Lenny  took  his  brother  by  the  collar,  and, 
catching  him  unawares,  made  him  lose  hold  on  the  fence 
and  tumble  over  on  the  other  side.  "  Serve  you  right !  " 
grumbled  my  champion.  "  What's  the  good  of  teasing 
a  kid?" 

My  heart  went  out  to  Lenny.  I  decided  to  fall  in  love 
with  him.  "  At  last  I  know  what  love  is,"  I  said  to  my- 
self. And  I  remember  the  thrill  I  felt  as  I  trembled 
with  joy.  I  thought  Lenny's  brown,  short-nosed  face 
the  handsomest  I  had  ever  seen.  The  glorious  difference 
between  a  boy  and  a  girl  was  revealed  to  me.  A  boy 
was  a  hero,  and  you  worshipped  him.  I  longed  to  have 
my  idol  love  me  as  I  loved  him,  but  I  did  not  know  how 
to  make  him  do  it.  I  adored  him  for  protecting  me,  and 
for  knocking  Freddy  off  the  fence,  but  I  was  ashamed 
that  he  had  called  me  a  kid.  I  envied  girls  who  were 
bigger  than  I,  envied  them  so  desperately  that  I  hated 
them,  the  whole  world  over.  Not  the  grown-up  ones, 
for  they  were  already  old,  and  did  not  count,  but  girls  of 
Lenny's  age,  whom  he  would  respect. 


84  To  M.  L.  G. 

"  I'm  not  a  Protestant ! "  I  exclaimed,  not  knowing 
what  the  word  meant,  except  that  it  was  intended  as  an 
insult. 

"  Aren't  you  ?  We  don't  care  two  cents  whether  you 
are  or  not,"  he  said,  indifferently,  and  slid  grandly  off  the 
fence,  on  his  own  side,  disappearing  from  my  sight. 

I  never  received  any  further  civilities  from  Lenny, 
except  that,  when  Freddy  would  begin  to  yell  "  Prot- 
estant ! "  from  the  depths  of  his  own  yard,  his  voice 
would  break  off  abruptly,  as  if  a  hand  were  pressed  over 
his  mouth.  Still,  Lenny  remained  my  hero,  and  I  built 
up  an  exquisite  romance,  like  a  wall  shutting  us  both 
away  from  the  outer  world.  I  told  myself  stories,  better 
than  those  with  which  the  work-girls  regaled  each  other. 
I  whispered  them  to  my  pillow  at  night,  after  J  had  gone 
to  bed,  before  Madame  came  up,  and  especially  when 
she  was  out  with  her  Jewish  friend,  at  the  theatre.  The 
thrilling  tales  of  our  love  would  often  be  continued, 
sometimes  improved  upon,  in  my  dreams,  until  almost  I 
believed  that  they  were  true. 

On  the  days  when  the  romance  seemed  most  real,  I 
would  climb  up  on  my  side  of  the  fence,  to  gaze  wistfully 
at  Lenny's  yard ;  and  if  the  boys  were  there  I  was  in- 
variably snubbed.  Lenny  pretended  not  to  notice  so 
small  and  unimportant  a  thing,  and  Freddy  derided  me 
ruthlessly.  Once,  however,  when  the  younger  boy  had 
been  insulting,  to  make  up  for  it  Lenny  held  out  a  new 
stick  of  chewing-gum.  "  Catch ! "  he  said  shortly.  I 
did  catch,  and  toppled  over  backwards  in  the  act,  but 
without  hurting  myself  seriously.  For  days  I  lived  on 
this  memory.  As  I  splashed  in  my  bath  (one  of  the 
great  pleasures  of  my  new  life),  I  would  sing  to  myself, 


To  M.  L.  G.  85 

"  I'm  in  love  with  Lenny !  I'm  in  love  with  Lenny  !  " 
As  I  walked,  my  feet  kept  time  to  that  refrain.  It  was  a 
beautiful  and  distinguished  thing  to  be  in  love  with  a  boy. 
For  weeks  I  was  satisfied  with  this  secret  joy,  but  at  last  I 
began  to  need  more  fuel  for  the  fire.  I  wanted  Lenny  to  be 
in  love  with  me ;  wanted  it  so  much  that  it  had  to  be,  or 
seem  to  be.  When  I  went  to  the  workroom  where  the 
girls  talked  of  love,  I  talked  of  mine ;  and  their  surprised 
interest  tempted  me  out  of  my  old  reserve.  In  a  kind  of 
madness  I  invented  anecdotes  about  the  next-door  boy 
and  me.  I  said  that  he  loved  me,  and  spent  all  his 
money  in  buying  me  candy,  quantities  of  candy,  wonder- 
ful, unheard-of  candy,  made  to  look  like  fruit  and  flowers 
and  jewels.  Nearly  every  day  he  brought  me  some,  I 
went  on  ;  but  when  the  girls  asked  to  see  a  sample,  I  had 
to  say  that  Lenny  had  ordered  me  to  eat  every  crumb 
myself,  and  never,  never  to  show  his  presents  to  any  one, 
for  if  I  did  he  would  not  speak  to  me  again.  That  very 
night,  as  if  in  punishment,  something  disagreed  with 
me,  and  I  was  so  ill  that  the  doctor  was  sent  for.  I 
was  kept  in  bed  next  morning,  and  one  of  the  girls 
retailed  the  story  of  the  candy  to  her  employer,  suggest- 
ing that  it  had  upset  me.  Madame,  astonished,  came  to 
me  with  questions.  Cold  with  terror  and  remorse,  I  re- 
fused to  answer.  She  then,  before  my  eyes,  scribbled  off 
a  note  to  the  lady  next  door,  requesting  that  the  boys 
should  give  no  more  candy  to  her  little  niece.  The  letter 
was  sent  across  by  hand.  Lenny  and  Freddy,  confronted 
with  it,  swore  that  they  had  never  given  me  anything,  or 
had  anything  whatever  to  do  with  me.  On  hearing  this 
from  their  mother,  Madame  forced  me  to  confess  that  I 
had  fibbed ;  and  my  sense  of  disgrace  and  shame  was 


86  To  M.  L.  G. 

such  that,  if  I  had  known  how,  I  would  have  killed  my- 
self. Never  again,  though  I  lived  with  Madame  till  I 
was  thirteen,  was  I  quite  happy  or  light-hearted  in  my 
play,  The  back  yard  was  spoiled  as  a  playground  by 
my  own  wrong-doing.  Out  of  school  hours  and  on  holi- 
days I  avoided  it,  after  the  day  when  my  sin  found  me 
out,  and  I  seldom  ventured  into  the  street  without  a 
guilty  beating  of  the  heart,  lest  I  might  meet  the  boy 
whose  name  I  had  taken  in  vain.  If  I  did  encounter 
him,  or  Freddy,  I  hung  my  head  and  hurried  past  nerv- 
ously, with  my  eyes  on  the  ground,  smarting  under  the 
sting  of  the  fancied  scorn  and  reproach,  which,  probably, 
the  boys  were  too  indifferent  to  feel. 

I  think  that  no  jilted  girl  ever  suffered  sharper  pain 
than  I,  at  seven  years  old.  Grown-up  people  forget  the 
tragic  despair  of  children. 

Yet,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Lenny  and  Freddy,  I  be- 
lieve that  Madame  would  have  let  me  live  on  in  igno- 
rance, without  any  schooling.  She  had  brought  me  into 
the  house,  and  kept  me  there,  for  the  same  reason  that 
people  keep  canaries,  or  sleeve  dogs.  Apart  from  her 
own  use  for  me,  she  did  not  think  of  me  at  all,  unless 
thoughts  were  put  into  her  head  by  others. 

It  was  a  taunt  from  Freddy  which  made  me  want  to  go 
to  school.  "  Who  doesn't  know  how  to  read  or  spell  ?  " 
he  shouted  at  me,  as  he  hung  over  the  fence.  "  Who 
doesn't  even  know  its  letters  ?  " 

He  had  hit  upon  the  truth.  I  was  seven  years  old 
and  had  never  been  taught  the  alphabet.  Lenny  and 
Freddy  had  no  doubt  been  going  to  school  for  years,  and 
there  were  girls  in  the  street  who  trotted  away  with 
books  under  their  arms,  every  morning,  except  Saturday 


To   M.  L.  G.  87 

and  Sunday.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  ignorance,  and  that 
night  when  Madame  came  to  bed  earlier  than  usual,  I 
was  crying.  She  asked  me,  somewhat  crossly,  what  was 
the  matter,  and  I  whimpered  that  I  wanted  to  go  to 
school,  like  other  children.  Then  she  laughed,  saying  it 
was  just  the  contrary  with  most  girls  and  boys.  They 
cried  because  they  were  obliged  to  go  to  school.  Still, 
she  seemed  impressed,  and  after  she  had  taken  down  her 
hair  and  put  on  her  nightgown  (an  elaborate  and  expen- 
sive one,  like  everything  she  wore),  she  promised  that  she 
would  "  see  about  it."  Next  morning,  when  she  found 
me  awake,  staring  at  her  from  the  white  crib  that  was 
already  too  short,  she  said  that  she  had  been  thinking 
over  the  idea  of  my  going  to  school.  There  was  no  one 
to  take  or  bring  me  back,  so  she  did  not  see  how  I  could 
possibly  go,  but  if  I  wanted  to  begin  learning  things,  I 
could  do  so.  There  was  a  nice  old  lady,  who  had  taught 
her  to  play  the  piano  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  and 
once  in  a  while  they  saw  each  other,  to  this  day.  She 
would  send  a  note  to  Miss  Minnie,  who  would  be  only 
too  glad  to  come  to  lunch,  and  "  perhaps  the  poor  old 
thing  knew  enough  to  be  a  governess." 

I  should  have  preferred  school,  because  there  I  could 
have  played  with  other  children.  Still,  there  was  the 
awful  thought  that  I  might  by  accident  have  been  put  in 
the  one  attended  by  Lenny  and  Freddy.  Even  if  not,  I 
might  have  met  them  in  the  street,  coming  and  going,  as 
perhaps  all  schools  began  and  let  out  at  the  same  hour. 
Altogether,  there  were  compensations  in  having  a  gov- 
erness, as  the  principal  thing  was  to  learn  spelling  and 
reading,  so  as  to  deserve  no  longer  Freddy's  reproach  of 
being  a  dunce. 


88  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  was  afraid  Madame  might  forget  her  promise,  but 
she  did  not.  As  usual,  when  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
do  a  thing  she  was  prompt  and  businesslike,  which  was 
one  secret  of  her  success.  Miss  Minnie  came  to  lunch 
next  day,  with  Madame  and  me,  in  the  rose- colored  din- 
ing-room, which  was  like  an  exaggerated  bonbon  box. 
Evidently  the  visitor  had  seen  the  house  before,  yet  she 
was  exclamatory  in  praises,  and  cooed  humbly  but  affec- 
tionately over  Madame,  whom  she  called  Maggie.  As 
she  had  been  acquainted  with  Madame  for  years,  she 
must  have  known  all  about  the  subject  which  was  a  mys- 
tery for  the  work-girls.  They  wondered,  in  whispers, 
which  I  occasionally  overheard,  whether  Madame  was  a 
real  widow  or  a  "  grass  widow,"  or  whether  she  was  un- 
married, and  "  Madame  "  only  by  courtesy,  or  because  it 
was  the  "  smart  thing  "  in  her  business.  If  Miss  Minnie 
knew  any  secrets  which  her  patroness  wished  to  keep 
hidden,  I  am  sure  she  would  have  had  her  tongue  cut  out 
rather  than  tell,  for  her  humble  soul  was  as  loyal  as  that 
of  some  devoted  animal,  and  one  had  only  to  watch  her 
gazing  at  "  dear  Maggie  "  with  her  big  eyes,  to  read  her 
faithful  love  and  admiration. 

Those  eyes  of  Miss  Minnie's  were  like  the  eyes  of  the 
monkeys  I  had  seen  in  my  one  menagerie,  and  never  for- 
gotten. In  shape  they  were  like,  with  the  roundness,  and 
tight  corners,  and  in  their  light  yellow-brown  color,  un- 
der large  lids,  with  thin,  scarcely  visible  eyelashes.  Her 
face  was  like  a  monkey's,  too,  with  a  low  forehead,  a  flat, 
turned-up  nose,  and  a  long  upper  lip,  with  prominent 
teeth,  and  gums  which  showed  when  she  laughed  —  as 
she  did  very  heartily,  about  nothing.  Only,  the  monkey 
she  resembled  must  have  been  an  affectionate  and  de- 


To   M.  L.  G.  89 

voted  one,  who  had  been  a  pet,  and  perhaps  deserted,  so 
that  it  had  become  wistful  and  sad. 

She  was  grateful  for  the  smallest  favor,  and  was  in  rap- 
tures over  the  present  of  a  dress  and  hat  from  Madame, 
the  day  when  she  came  to  luncheon.  The  things  had 
been  beautiful,  and  becoming  to  Madame,  but  they  had 
been  half-spoiled  in  a  rain-storm,  so  that  Madame  would 
have  scorned  to  wear  them  again.  To  Miss  Minnie  they 
seemed  a  dream  of  Paris  perfection.  She  almost  cried 
with  joy  at  the  thought  of  their  being  hers,  and  as  she 
tried  them  on  before  one  of  Madame's  long  mirrors,  I 
felt  for  her  something  of  pity,  something  of  the  hard  con- 
tempt children  have  for  their  elders  who  make  themselves 
ridiculous, 

The  big  picture  hat,  which  had  framed  Madame's 
brown  hair  graciously,  was  ludicrous  on  her  locks,  that 
were  thin,  and  had  begun  to  turn  from  pale  auburn  to 
gray.  The  aesthetically  made  gown  gave  her  round- 
shouldered,  flat-breasted  figure  the  look  of  a  scarecrow, 
especially  with  the  feathered  hat  fallen  on  one  side. 

I  think  that  Madame  had  a  vague  fondness  for  the 
little  woman,  and  would  perhaps  have  taken  her  for  a 
hired  companion,  if  Miss  Minnie  had  not  been  so  unat- 
tractive to  look  at,  and  so  spasmodic  in  her  manner.  As 
she  was,  she  would  have  "  got  on  Madame's  nerves,"  if 
constantly  about,  and  she  was  too  dowdy  to  live  in  so 
decorative  a  house.  But  as  a  governess  for  me  she  was 
suitable,  and  Madame  was  not  obliged  to  have  her  con- 
tinually under  her  eyes.  She  was  engaged  to  teach  me, 
between  nine-thirty  and  twelve.  These  were  Madame's 
business  hours,  which  she  spent  with  her  clients,  but  oc- 
casionally; when  she  was  particularly  good-natured,  or 


90  To   M.  L.  G. 

something  had  made  her  happy,  she  would  raise  Miss 
Minnie  to  the  seventh  heaven  by  inviting  her  to  lunch, 
and  talking,  with  some  slight  reserve,  of  old  times. 

Miss  Minnie  knew  very  little  about  music,  very  little 
about  anything,  and  what  she  did  know  she  had  not  the 
art  of  imparting  to  others.  All  her  methods  were  old- 
fashioned,  such  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  in  her 
youth,  and  she  had  no  idea  of  any  changes  since.  But 
she  was  so  kind,  and  so  grieved  at  anything  which  she 
felt  was  failure  on  her  part,  that  I  grew  fond  of  her,  and 
always  did  my  best.  At  least,  she  was  a  lady,  and  had 
a  refined  manner  which  was  not  made  up  of  affectations, 
such  as  Madame  assumed  to  impress  her  clients.  But 
the  thing  which  most  interested  me  in  her  was  her  ability 
to  read  upside  down. 

She  had  learned  the  letters  thus,  standing  at  her  teach- 
er's knee,  so  that  reading  upside  down  was  more  natural 
to  her  than  the  right  way,  which  she  had  been  obliged 
to  pick  up  later.  She  was  ashamed  if  she  were  caught 
holding  a  book  with  the  top  of  the  page  towards  her,  and 
laughed  uneasily,  as  if  she  had  been  doing  something 
wrong. 

About  my  grammar  she  was  very  particular,  which 
was  fortunate,  as  Madame  had  no  ear  for  it. 

"  A  little  girl  who  doesn't  speak  correctly  is  as  bad  as 
one  who  doesn't  brush  her  teeth,"  Miss  Minnie  laid  down 
as  law.  After  that,  I  was  punctilious  in  conquering  my 
mistakes,  for  I  had  a  horror  of  bad  teeth,  and  the  com- 
parison caught  my  imagination.  Also  she  assured  me 
that  if  I  made  slips  in  grammar  I  should  never  get  a 
husband ;  and  my  great  desire  at  that  time  was  to  grow 
up  and  marry  a  big  boy  handsomer  and  richer  and  clev- 


To   M.  L.  G.  91 

erer  than  Lenny.  I  wanted  to  drive  past  Lenny  with  my 
husband  and  two  beautiful  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  in 
a  splendid  carriage,  while  Lenny  and  Freddy  walked  wist- 
fully by  on  the  sidewalk.  Then  they  would  be  sorry  for 
everything  they  had  made  me  suffer,  and  Lenny  would 
regret  all  his  life  that  he  had  not  really  given  me  the 
candy. 

Eager  to  learn  the  alphabet,  and  how  to  spell  and  read, 
and  so  no  longer  to  deserve  the  taunt  which  rankled  in 
my  mind,  I  put  my  whole  soul  to  my  work.  After  a 
month  of  poor  Miss  Minnie's  amateur  instruction,  I  could 
read  whole  sentences  of  words  with  one  syllable,  and 
could  add  up  to  six  times  six.  By  and  by  came  geography, 
which  I  insisted  on  learning  from  a  globe,  and  a  minia- 
ture one  was  bought  for  me.  But  the  moment  it  came, 
Miss  Minnie  happened  to  mention  that  our  world  was  a 
unit  among  many  others  revolving  round  the  sun,  and 
after  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  except  astronomy. 
Madame  allowed  Miss  Minnie  to  buy  a  book  for  me, 
called  "  The  Heavens  Through  a  Child's  Eyes,"  and  the 
door  of  a  great,  blue,  star-paved  fairy-land  was  opened  for 
me.  Still  later,  we  took  up  history,  reading  such  plays 
of  Shakespeare's  as  concerned  the  periods  I  had  to  study. 
But  that  did  not  begin  till  I  was  twelve,  and  soon  after, 
all  my  new  interests  were  brought  to  an  end  so  suddenly 
that  my  mental  development  was  arrested,  as  if  blinds 
had  been  drawn  down  over  the  windows  of  my  brain.  In 
the  rooms  within,  which  had  just  begun  to  be  furnished, 
the  work  of  the  decorators  was  stopped.  Dust  and  moth 
corrupted  all,  and  after  a  long  time,  when  the  windows 
were  thrown  open  to  light  and  air,  nearly  everything  had 
to  be  done  over  again. 


92  To   M.  L.  G. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  happy  with  Miss  Minnie,  learning 
eagerly  what  she  could  teach,  except  music,  which  I  could 
not  master.  I  could  play  by  ear,  and  if  a  note  were  wrong 
I  felt  it  jarring  through  nerve  after  nerve,  yet  I  could  not 
learn  to  play  the  piano  by  rule. 

Miss  Minnie,  who  had  set  her  heart  on  teaching  me  all 
she  knew  herself,  would  not  give  up  easily.  "  If  you 
could  just  play  for  your  friends  to  dance,  when  you  get 
to  be  a  young  lady,  you'd  thank  me  on  your  bended 
knees ! "  she  repeated  so  often  that  I  was  tired  of  the 
phrase,  especially  the  part  about  the  "  bended  knees," 
which  somehow  irritated  me  unspeakably.  But  I  never 
tired  of  hearing  her  play  her  old-fashioned,  favorite 
waltzes,  mostly  by  Strauss. 

I  could  not  help  dancing  when  the  "  Beautiful  Blue 
Danube  "  rippled  under  her  little  blunt  fingers.  It  was 
nothing  to  me  that  it  was  old-fashioned.  I  thought  it 
beautiful,  and  danced  to  it  so  instinctively  that  kind  Miss 
Minnie  said  I  ought  to  have  lessons. 

She  knew  a  dancing  teacher,  who  was,  in  her  eyes,  a 
great  genius.  In  fact,  she  lived  in  the  same  boarding- 
house  with  him,  and  played  the  dance  music  for  his 
pupils,  for  a  tiny  fee.  But  I  am  sure  she  would  gladly 
have  worked  for  nothing,  for  the  poor  lady  was  in  love 
with  Mr,  Fanning.  Unknown  to  himself,  he  supplied  the 
element  of  romance  in  her  life. 

She  lived  up  at  the  top  of  the  house  in  Gramercy  Park, 
and  did  not  mind  a  box  of  a  room  at  the  back,  because 
it  was  a  "  good  address."  Her  hard  sofa  was  a  bed  by 
night,  and  she  had  a  Japanese  screen  in  front  of  her 
wash-stand,  also  Japanese  fans  dotting  the  faded  wall-paper 
like  gigantic  butterflies. 


To  M.  L.  G.  93 

"  You  see,  it  really  isn't  uncomfortable,  and  it  gives  me 
a  parlor  of  my  own,"  she  explained  to  me  proudly,  as  I 
visited  her,  and  ate  very  dry  cake  out  of  a  box  orna- 
mented with  shells  and  sea  beans.  "  I  couldn't  possibly 
receive  gentlemen  in  my  bedroom ;  but  here  I  can  have 
Mr.  Fanning,  and  any  pupil  who  may  wish  to  make  in- 
quiries,  come  and  call  upon  me." 

Madame  was  willing  to  pay  for  my  dancing  lessons, 
and  Miss  Minnie  took  me  to  the  class,  twice  a  week  in 
the  afternoon.  It  was  a  wonderful  excitement  to  me,  for 
there  were  more  than  a  dozen  pupils,  boys  and  girls ;  and 
when  I  was  sure  that  Lenny  and  Freddy  were  not  among 
them,  I  looked  forward  to  the  dancing  days  so  eagerly 
that  I  hardly  slept  the  night  before. 

Miss  Minnie  thought  Mr.  Fanning  "  such  a  distin- 
guished looking  man,  and  so  like  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
being  French  on  his  mother's  side."  But  I  saw  in  him 
only  a  very  thin,  rather  short,  yellow-faced  man  with  oily 
black  hair,  beady  eyes,  a  hook  nose,  a  black  pointed 
beard,  and  jerky  limbs,  that  were  like  those  of  a  "  Jump- 
ing Jack  "  when  he  danced.  He  had  polite  manners,  af- 
fecting a  French  roll  of  the  "  r,"  and  though  his  classes 
were  held  between  three  and  five  in  the  afternoon,  he 
was  always  in  full  evening  dress.  There  were  spots  on 
his  coat  sometimes,  which  worried  Miss  Minnie  because 
he  had  no  one  to  attend  to  him  properly,  and  she  could 
not  muster  up  courage  to  point  out  the  spots  or  offer  to 
wash  them  off  with  benzine.  We  could  tell,  by  the  same 
signs,  how  long  he  wore  his  stiff  dress  shirt,  and  before 
he  discarded  his  ready-made  white  ties  they  would  turn  a 
pale  gray. 

Miss  Minnie  suffered  tortures  of  jealousy  because  of  the 


94  To   M.  L.  G. 

eldest  pupil,  a  rich  grocer's  daughter,  who  was  sixteen 
and  had  black  eyebrows  with  light  brown  hair,  and  round 
cheeks  like  apples.  Children  know  such  things  by  in- 
stinct, I  suppose.  I  knew,  and  was  sorry  for  her,  because 
my  unfortunate  love  for  the  scornful  Lenny  had  taught 
me  to  be  sympathetic.  When  Miss  Minnie  asked  me 
anxiously  if  I  thought  Nella  a  beauty,  I  answered  no ; 
that  she  was  a  common-looking  girl,  with  horrid  big 
ankles.  Then  Miss  Minnie  would  be  almost  happy  till 
the  day  of  the  next  dancing  class,  when  she  could  not 
help  seeing  Mr.  Fanning  pinch  Nella's  arm  as  they 
finished  a  "  two-step." 

He  would  dance  with  all  his  girl  pupils  in  turn,  to 
criticize  their  progress,  but  most  often  with  those  he  liked 
best.  Nella  was  his  favorite  because  she  was  a  big  girl, 
and  flirted  with  him ;  but  I  came  next,  for  I  was  light  on 
my  feet,  and  he  never  had  to  tell  me  things  twice.  But 
some  of  the  smallest  girls  were  so  shy  that  they  could  not 
help  crying  when  he  led  them  out  before  the  whole  class. 
One,  named  Jenny  Elmore,  was  my  dearest  friend, 
though  we  never  saw  each  other  except  at  Mr.  Fan- 
ning's.  She  was  like  a  timid  little  fawn,  but  was  able  to 
keep  back  her  tears,  she  confided  to  me,  by  thinking  very 
hard  of  the  Bible,  before  they  had  begun  to  fall. 

I  had  never  read  the  Bible,  had  indeed  hardly  ever 
heard  it  spoken  of,  but  I  was  so  interested  to  know  it 
had  power  to  keep  people  from  cryirtg,  that  I  begged 
Miss  Minnie  to  lend  me  hers.  She  had  one  on  the  table 
in  her  room,  where  it  always  lay  between  the  shell  box 
and  a  copy  of  "  East  Lynne."  It  was  a  cheap  Bible,  but 
old,  and  the  date  of  Miss  Minnie's  birth  was  scratched 
out  in  it.  The  print  was  so  bad,  and  the  leaves  so  thin, 


To  M.  L.  G.  95 

it  was  hard  to  read  ;  yet  I  did  read  all,  except  what  I 
called  the  "  dry  part,  full  of  names."  Though  I  was  in- 
terested in  much  that  I  read,  and  asked  Miss  Minnie  a 
great  many  questions  about  the  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ments, I  was  never  able  to  understand  why  thinking  of 
the  Bible  could  keep  Jenny  Elmore  from  crying.  Never- 
theless I  never  forgot  the  recipe,  and  often  I  have  suc- 
cessfully kept  back  tears  by  remembering  Jenny  Elmore 
and  the  Bible  at  the  critical  instant. 

Jenny  had  a  big  brother,  Clarence,  who  was  thirteen 
when  I  was  ten.  He  had  the  same  fawn  eyes  as  his 
sister,  and  a  slow,  beautiful  smile  that  kept  time  with  the 
graceful  laziness  of  his  movements.  I  loved  him  as  an 
art  student  loves  a  highly  prized  masterpiece  in  a  dealer's 
window.  Never  did  I  tire  of  looking  at  him  from  under 
my  eyelashes,  and  the  hope  died  hard  that  he  would  ask 
me  to  dance.  It  was  Mr.  Fanning  who  ordered  him  to 
do  so  once,  and  even  that  was  a  suffocating  joy.  But 
Clarence  cared  for  nobody  in  the  school  except  Nella, 
and  I  heard  him  say  to  her,  "  I  shan't  come  any  more  if 
he  makes  me  dance  with  those  kids." 

My  ears  tingled  at  the  words,  and  I  began  to  long  to 
grow  up. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OFTEN  I  have  wondered  what  I  should  have 
turned  out  to  be,  if  I  had  grown  up  under 
Madame's  care.  With  her,  I  should  have  had 
a  certain  amount  of  luxury,  and  she  would  have  sheltered 
me  as  well  as  she  could  without  giving  herself  trouble. 
None  of  the  things  which  made  my  life  hardest  to  write 
about  would  have  happened,  and  yet  —  I  doubt  if  you 
could  have  loved  me.  I  think  my  soul  would  never 
have  waked  up.  It  would  have  been  stifled  by  Madame's 
rose  perfumes.  If  I  might  go  back  again,  and  choose,  I 
hardly  know  which  I  should  choose.  It  does  not  bear 
thinking  about. 

My  life  in  Madame's  exotic  bower  of  roses  was  an 
interlude.  If  I  got  no  other  good  from  it  —  except  the 
saving  of  my  health,  and  a  smattering  of  education  —  at 
least  I  learned  a  love  of  cleanliness  which  no  after  ex- 
perience could  ever  kill.  And  yet  the  sensuous  pleasure 
in  sweet,  clean  things,  and  the  memory  of  daintiness  I 
carried  away  with  me  from  Madame's  house,  put  an  edge 
on  temptation  for  me  later. 

I  said  that  Madame  had  one  friend,  whom  she  allowed 
to  call,  and  with  whom  she  went  to  restaurant  dinners 
and  to  plays.  He  was  a  Jew,  who  seemed  old  to  me, 
though  he  was  probably  not  much  over  forty.  He  had 
a  great  deal  of  money,  but  so  had  other  men  who 
admired  Madame,  and  with  them  she  would  have  nothing 
to  do  because  they  were  "  common." 

96 


To  M.  L.  G.  97 

Mr.  Hcinrich  was  not  common,  and  at  home,  in  Ger- 
many, he  was  a  baron,  he  told  her.  He  had  a  wife,  from 
whom  he  was  separated,  but  not  divorced.  I  used  to 
hear  him  talking  about  his  wife  to  Madame,  when  he 
came  to  take  her  out  in  the  evening.  "  That  woman  ! " 
he  would  say  bitterly,  in  his  guttural,  yet  agreeable  voice, 
which  had  a  foreign  roll  of  the  "  r "  that  was  very 
different  from  Mr.  Fanning's.  I  knew,  somehow,  that  if 
the  woman  died,  he  and  Madame  would  be  married. 

When  I  was  between  twelve  and  thirteen,  Madame 
was  going  to  take  me  to  a  matinee  one  afternoon.  I 
had  a  new  dress  and  hat,  and  was  very  happy.  Besides, 
it  was  May,  and  this  brought  a  stirring  in  the  blood 
which  intoxicated  me  with  joy  that  I  never  understood, 
though  I  looked  for  and  expected  it  in  the  spring.  Just 
as  we  were  starting  out,  a  boy  ran  up  the  steps  and 
handed  Madame  a  telegram.  She  read  it,  and  I,  watch- 
ing her,  saw  her  face  covered  with  a  flush,  which  grew 
brighter  and  brighter.  She  stopped  in  the  doorway 
for  a  minute,  the  telegram  in  her  hand.  When  she  did 
not  speak,  I  grew  half  frightened,  and  impatient,  for  we 
were  starting  late. 

"  Do  come  !  "  I  said.     "  It's  nothing  bad,  is  it?  " 

"  It's  —  it's  something  good,"  she  answered,  slowly. 
"  But  I  can't  come.  We  won't  go  to  the  matinee  after 
all." 

It  was  a  play  that  I  wanted  to  see,  for  the  work-girls 
talked  about  it,  and  said  it  was  the  "  sweetest  thing " 
they  had  ever  seen.  It  made  them  all  cry,  and  there 
was  a  little  girl  in  it  about  my  age. 

I  begged  Madame  to  go,  but  she  hardly  listened. 
Without  paying  any  attention  to  me,  she  turned  and 


98  To  M.  L.  G. 

went  indoors.  She  had  the  tickets,  so  I  followed,  still 
hoping. 

"  Do  go ! "  I  begged.  "  Or  if  you  can't,  let  Wilhel- 
mina  take  me."  Wilhelmina  was  the  good-natured  one 
of  the  two  cooks,  who  let  me  stir  her  cake  for  her,  and 
eat  the  scrapings  with  an  enormous  iron  spoon. 

Suddenly  Madame  turned  on  me.  "  Oh,  shut  up  ! " 
she  said,  sharply.  "  I  want  to  think !  A  good  many 
worse  things  may  happen  to  you  than  missing  a  silly  old 
matinee.  Go  away  and  let  me  alone." 

I  turned  without  another  word,  and  went  up-stairs  to 
the  top  floor,  into  the  deserted  workroom,  for  it  was 
Saturday,  after  two  o'clock,  and  all  the  girls  had  gone. 
Madame  had  sat  down  in  the  empty  show-room,  which 
was  nearest  to  the  front  door.  I  thought  she  would  stay 
there  a  long  time,  poring  over  her  mysterious  telegram, 
and  I  wanted  to  be  as  far  away  from  her  as  possible. 

In  all  the  years  I  had  been  with  Madame,  she  had 
hardly  ever  been  cross,  at  worst  only  a  little  snappish,  if 
I  bothered  her,  or  if  I  were  ill,  for  she  loathed  illness, 
and  had  no  patience  with  it.  But  now  I  felt  deeply 
injured.  I  thought  she  was  cruel,  and  wicked,  to  speak 
to  me  like  that,  and  to  keep  me  from  going  out  in  my 
new  things  to  the  matinee.  I  wished  that  I  could  make 
her  sorry,  by  fainting  away  or  even  dying,  all  alone  in 
the  workroom,  where  the  curtains  were  drawn  down. 

The  air  was  stuffy  there,  for  the  girls  had  left  the 
windows  shut,  and  there  was  a  heavy  odor  of  humanity, 
mingled  with  the  luscious  scents  used  in  Madame's 
preparations.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  easy  to  faint, 
but  I  could  not,  though  I  held  my  breath,  and  rolled  up 
my  eyes,  trying  to  make  myself  giddy. 


To   M.  L.  G.  99 

I  grew  very  tired  of  sitting  there,  but  I  wanted  so 
much  to  frighten  Madame,  and  make  her  sorry  for  her 
cruelty,  that  I  would  not  go  down.  I  sat  in  the  close 
workroom,  with  the  door  shut,  not  stirring,  but  with  my 
ears  pricked  up,  listening  for  some  sound  on  the  stairs  — 
Madame  coming  in  search  of  me.  A  second  thought 
made  me  throw  myself  on  a  long  bare  bench  which  ran 
along  the  wall.  I  thought  if  Madame  found  me  prostrate 
there,  she  would  repent,  and  perhaps  apologize  for  her 
wickedness.  As  I  lay  on  my  face,  with  my  new  hat 
pushed  back,  my  hair,  which  had  grown  very  long  again, 
trailed  on  the  floor  among  the  scraps  of  paper  and  ribbon 
which  the  girls  had  left  lying  about.  It  looked  aban- 
doned and  sad,  like  the  hair  of  some  drowned  creature  in 
a  picture ;  but  I  forgot  my  sulkiness  for  a  little  while,  in 
admiring  its  length  and  thickness,  and  the  way  it  curled 
at  the  ends.  I  did  not  care  for  its  color,  but  people 
walking  behind  me  in  the  street  often  said,  "  What  won- 
derful hair  that  child's  got,"  so  I  knew  it  must  be  pretty. 

The  afternoon  passed  away,  very  slowly.  Still  I  would 
not  move,  hoping  that  Madame  might  come.  At  last  it 
was  evening,  and  in  the  twilight  the  workroom  was  full 
of  strange  echoes  and  little  squeakings,  such  as  never 
came  by  day.  I  was  very  hungry,  and  a  little  afraid.  I 
remembered  in  what  an  odd  tone  Madame  had  said,  "  A 
great  many  worse  things  may  happen  to  you  than  miss- 
ing a  matinee." 

Her  voice  sounded  ominous,  like  a  warning,  as  I  re- 
called it.  I  thought  that  perhaps  the  worse  things  had 
begun  to  happen  already,  that  perhaps  she  had  meant 
something  in  particular.  I  could  bear  my  exile  no 
longer ;  and  cramped  from  lying  so  long  in  one  position, 


ioo  To   M.  L.  G. 

my  new  dress  creased,  I  went  slowly  and  with  dignity 
down-stairs.  Sounds  of  voices  came  to  me  from  the 
boudoir.  I  recognized  the  voice  of  Mr.  Heinrich  talking 
in  an  earnest,  even  excited  tone,  with  Madame.  But  he 
hardly  ever  appeared  so  early.  I  could  not  remember 
his  coming  until  time  to  dine,  or  take  Madame  out  to 
dinner,  unless  they  went  first  to  look  at  an  exhibition  or 
sale  of  pictures.  For  Mr.  Heinrich  was  a  judge  of  pic- 
tures, as  well  as  of  music.  He  would  say,  "  They  are 
my  two  passions  —  after  one  other  which  comes  above 
all."  And  he  would  look  at  Madame  with  what  I 
thought  a  silly  look  in  his  handsome,  almond-shaped 
eyes. 

Nearly  always  I  had  seen  him  in  evening  things,  for 
Madame  was  very  exacting,  and  I  had  heard  her  tell  him 
she  expected  to  be  treated  with  as  much  respect  as  if  she 
were  a  queen.  Now,  however,  he  was  in  day  clothes. 
They  two  were  sitting  together  in  the  boudoir,  both 
leaning  their  elbows  on  the  table.  Mr.  Heinrich  was 
showing  Madame  some  papers,  and  their  heads  were 
close  to  each  other.  His  was  large,  and  looked  heavy, 
for  his  throat  was  rather  long  and  thin,  and  would  have 
seemed  thinner,  if  it  had  not  been  well  hidden  by  a  thick 
black  beard.  Usually  he  had  a  stately,  leisured  manner, 
and  in  an  evening  overcoat  he  had,  with  a  long  flowing 
cape,  he  looked  patriarchal,  like  a  Biblical  figure.  But 
this  evening  his  gestures  were  excited  and  hurried.  Sud- 
denly he  bent  forward,  seized  Madame's  face  between 
his  hands,  and  kissed  her. 

I  shivered  a  little  at  sight  of  the  kiss,  for  he  had  a  long 
aquiline  nose  with  a  cold  tip,  as  I  knew,  for  he  had  once 
kissed  me,  a  long  time  ago.  And  he  had  very  full,  red 


To   M.  L.  G.  101 

lips  between  his  straggling  moustache  and  beard.  It  was 
the  thought  of  the  fat,  soft  lips  that  set  me  shivering,  for 
ever  since  Maud  had  seized  and  kissed  me  at  the  old 
boarding-house,  fat  red  lips  had  seemed  no  less  than  hor- 
rible to  me.  I  had  read  a  story  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights  " 
about  a  ghoul,  who  ate  grains  of  rice  by  day,  and  bodies 
at  night,  and  I  knew  she  must  have  had  thick,  blood- 
filled  lips  like  Rose,  and  Maud,  and  other  black  people 
—  and  Mr.  Heinrich. 

Madame  laughed  a  stifled  laugh,  under  the  kiss,  and, 
tried  to  push  his  hands  down  from  her  face,  as  they  sat 
at  opposite  sides  of  the  little  round  table.  I  saw  on  the 
third  finger  of  her  left  hand  a  splendid  new  ring,  dia- 
monds and  rubies,  her  favorite  stones. 

Then,  as  if  my  fascinated  stare  signalled  them,  they 
both  turned  and  looked  round  at  me,  as  I  stood  in  the 
door.  I  thought  for  an  instant  that  Madame  would  be 
angry,  but  she  smiled  quite  pleasantly.  She  had  forgot- 
ten all  about  her  burst  of  crossness  and  my  resentment, 
and  she  had  never  missed  me.  My  long  martyrdom  in 
the  workroom  had  been  all  in  vain. 

Mr.  Heinrich  rather  liked  me,  as  he  did  not  know  what 
I  felt  about  his  cold  nose  and  red  lips.  He  smiled,  too, 
and  did  not  appear  to  mind  my  having  seen  him  kiss 
Madame. 

"  Come  here  and  wish  us  joy,  little  Missy,"  he  said. 
"  Your  dear  Madame  is  going  to  be  my  Baroness.  I'm 
a  baron,  you  know,  and  now  I'm  a  happy  widower. 
Everything  is  going  to  be  all  right  at  last." 

As  he  spoke,  Madame  good-naturedly  made  room  for 
me  on  the  big  lounge  on  which  she  sat,  by  the  little  table. 
She  gave  me  her  left  hand,  with  its  manicured  pink  nails, 


102  To   M.  L.  G. 

and  let  me  examine  her  new  ring.  I  had  not  forgiven 
her  about  the  matinee,  but  I  was  afraid  I  might  forgive 
her  by  and  by,  and  was  annoyed  at  my  own  softness,  be- 
cause I  wished  to  be  angry  for  a  long  time. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  make  a  nice  baroness,  dear?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  though  I  did  not  know  what  it  was  to 
be  a  baroness.  And  I  was  too  hungry  and  tired  to  won- 
der what  would  become  of  me  when  she  married  Mr. 
Heinrich. 

Weeks  passed,  and  though  the  Baron  came  every  day, 
nothing  was  settled  about  the  wedding ;  or  if  it  were 
settled,  every  one  outside  was  kept  in  the  dark.  Madame 
did  not  speak  to  me  of  her  plans,  before  getting  up  in  the 
morning  as  she  had  done.  There  was  something  on  her 
mind,  which  she  did  not  care  to  talk  over  with  me,  and  I 
felt  uneasily  that  whatever  it  was,  I  was  connected  with 
it.  She  had  long  conversations  after  closing  time  with 
Miss  Smith,  the  manageress,  or  head  assistant,  the  oldest, 
but  handsomest,  of  the  "  young  ladies,"  who  was  closeted 
with  Madame  for  hours  in  the  consulting  room  every 
day.  One  Saturday  afternoon,  instead  of  going  out  to 
amuse  herself  as  usual,  Madame  stayed  in  the  house. 
Miss  Smith  stayed  too,  after  lunching  with  Madame  and 
me,  a  thing  that  had  never  happened  before,  as  Madame 
stood  on  her  dignity  with  those  she  employed.  They 
had  half  a  bottle  of  champagne,  though  Madame  thought 
wine  and  spirits  bad  for  the  complexion,  and  hardly  ever 
drank  them. 

Miss  Smith  grew  more  and  more  excited,  looking 
handsomer  than  I  had  seen  her,  until  I  thought  her  al- 
most as  pretty  as  Madame.  Only  she  was  of  a  Jewish 


To   M.  L.  G.  103 

type,  and  was  getting  a  faint  moustache,  like  a  line  deli- 
cately marked  with  a  crayon  on  her  short  upper  lip. 
They  touched  their  glasses  together,  and  Madame  said, 
"  Success  to  Madame  St.  C ! " 

"  And  to  the  Baroness  !  "  returned  Miss  Smith. 

Immediately  after  luncheon,  which  lasted  longer  than 
when  we  were  alone,  there  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell, 
and  the  maid  who  opened  the  door  for  clients  came  to 
announce  that  two  gentlemen  had  called.  They  had 
sent  up  cards,  but  neither  Madame  nor  Miss  Smith 
looked  at  them.  They  did  not  appear  surprised  that  vis- 
itors had  come. 

The  maid,  Clara,  who  was  pretty,  like  every  one  in 
Madame's  employ,  went  on  to  say  that  the  gentlemen 
were  in  the  reception-room.  She  had  wonderfully 
bright,  inquisitive  eyes,  which  seemed  to  pierce  through 
things  as  gimlets  do. 

"  Bring  them  to  my  boodore,"  said  Madame,  smiling 
at  Miss  Smith,  who  turned  red  under  the  film  of  White 
Rose  Balm,  which  she  used  to  make  her  dark  skin  fair. 

Presently  I  saw  the  two  visitors  coming  up-stairs. 
One  was  very  smartly  dressed,  and  wore  a  tall  silk  hat 
that  glittered  beautifully.  He  was  a  Jew,  and  youngish, 
much  younger  than  Madame's  Baron.  The  other  might 
have  been  a  Jew  also,  but  he  looked  like  a  business  man, 
and  had  a  small  packet  of  folded  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  Go  and  tell  Wilhelmina  to  make  you  some  peach 
ice-cream  for  dinner,"  Madame  said  to  me.  "  I  shall  be 
going  out.  And  you  can  have  jelly  cake  with  it,  if  you 
want  to." 

I  liked  ice-cream  and  jelly  cake  better  than  anything 
else  to  eat,  and  I  liked  Wilhelmina.  But  I  was  not 


104  To   M-  L-  G- 

elated,  for  I  knew  very  well  that  I  was  being  sent  out  of 
the  way. 

Clara  was  in  the  up-stairs  kitchen  with  Wilhelmina 
when  I  arrived.  They  were  talking  so  eagerly  that  they 
did  not  hear  me  at  the  door,  and  I  caught  the  words 
"  Jew  backer,  putting  up  money  to  take  over  the  busi- 
ness," before  they  turned  and  saw  me. 

"  What  is  a  Jew  backer?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  he  might  be  a  gentleman  friend  of  Miss  Smith's 

—  I  mean  Madame  St.  C "s,"  said  Wilhelmina,  who 

was  less  discreet  than  Clara. 

"  Is  Miss  Smith  going  to  be  married  ?  "  I  went  on. 

They  both  laughed,  a  cackling  kind  of  laugh,  and 
looked  at  each  other. 

"  Ask  us  something  easier,"  returned  Clara. 

I  was  a  little  irritated  at  being  laughed  at,  for  I  thought 
my  question  a  simple  one,  and  not  at  all  funny. 

"  You  said  she'd  be  Madame  St.  C ,  and  so  did 

Madame,"  I  reminded  them. 

"  Anybody  can  be  Madame  who  wants  to  be,  so  far  as 
I  can  tell,"  Wilhelmina  explained.  "  It's  good  for  busi- 
ness. Now,  you  can  just  run  away,  or  else  say  what  you 
want.  Clara  and  I  have  got  something  better  to  do  than 
answer  silly  questions." 

I  was  too  proud  to  persist.  Besides,  suddenly  I  seemed 
to  see  quite  clearly  behind  their  inuendoes.  Miss  Smith 

was  going  to  call  herself  Madame  St.  C and  take 

the  business  when  our  Madame  married.  This  proved 
that  what  I  had  vaguely  suspected  was  true.  Madame 
meant  to  go  away. 

The  visitors  stayed  a  long  time.  It  must  have  been 
two  hours  later  when  I  heard  loud  laughing  and  talking 


To   M.  L.  G.  105 

in  the  corridor  outside  Madame's  rooms.  By  that  time 
I  was  in  the  bedroom,  lying  down  with  a  novel  which 
was  very  exciting,  but  not  exciting  enough  to  keep  my 
thoughts  from  wandering  to  Madame  and  her  plans. 

When  the  voices  were  silent,  the  door  of  the  bedroom 
was  thrown  open,  and  Madame  came  in.  She  looked 
flushed  and  tired,  yet  pleased. 

"  Ah,  that's  a  good  thing,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  long- 
drawn  sigh  of  relief.  "  They've  gone."  She  flung  out 
her  arms,  and  stretched  herself,  standing.  "  Get  up  and 
unhook  me,  that's  a  good  girl,"  she  went  on. 

For  the  last  three  years  I  had  helped  her  a  good  deal 
about  dressing  and  undressing,  for  she  had  no  maid  of 
her  own.  There  would  hardly  have  been  room  in  the 
house  to  put  one  up  comfortably,  owing  to  the  space 
given  to  clients,  and,  besides,  Madame  was  so  brisk  and 
vigorous  that  she  liked  to  do  most  things  for  herself,  all 
but  mending,  which  Clara  did. 

I  unhooked  her  frock  behind,  and  when  she  had  taken 
off  her  satin  corsets,  she  got  me  to  help  her  into  a  lace 
dressing-gown.  Then  she  lay  down,  flat  on  her  back, 
on  her  wide,  springy  bed,  which  had  the  softest  pillows  I 
have  ever  seen. 

"  Scratch  my  arms,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll  tell  you  lots  of 
interesting  things  that  you'll  like  to  hear." 

I  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  bed,  and  making  my  lap 
higher  with  a  sofa  cushion  from  the  adjoining  boudoir,  I 
laid  one  of  her  beautiful  bare  arms  on  it. 

It  was  no  new  thing  to  be  asked  to  scratch  her  arms, 
though  usually  it  was  later,  just  before  she  was  ready  to 
dress  for  dinner,  or  in  the  night  if  she  had  what  she 
called  "  the  jumps,"  and  could  not  sleep.  I  scratched 


106  To   M.  L.  G. 

very  gently,  drawing  my  ringers  slowly  up  and  down  the 
whole  length  of  the  arm,  from  shoulder  to  wrist,  and 
over  the  back  of  the  hand.  Slowly,  too,  she  would  turn 
her  arm  round,  so  that  I  might  end  up  with  the  inner 
side  of  it,  and  the  upturned  palm.  This  operation  soothed 
and  rested  her,  as  rubbing  soothes  a  cat,  and  she  loved 
to  have  me  scratch  her  legs  too,  from  the  knee  down  to 
the  ankle,  and  over  the  instep.  She  would  get  me  to 
pull  off  her  thin  silk  stockings,  which  were  like  a  deli- 
cate, shiny  film  over  the  pale  pink  flesh ;  and  as  I 
scratched  she  would  look  with  never-failing  pleasure  at 
her  bare  feet,  of  which  she  was  very  proud,  because  the 
toes  were  not  deformed,  and  every  day  she  reddened  and 
polished  their  nails. 

This  time,  as  I  scratched  her  arm,  she  lay  with  closed 
eyes,  not  speaking  for  a  few  minutes ;  then,  without 
opening  her  eyes,  she  began  to  tell  me  the  things  she 
had  promised  to  tell :  how  she  had  been  waiting  to  marry 
the  Baron  until  her  business  was  settled ;  how  at  last  it 
was  all  arranged.  Miss  Smith  would  buy  it,  and  she  her- 
self would  be  free  to  go  with  the  Baron  to  Germany  for 
the  honeymoon.  They  would  travel  in  Europe  for  a 
year,  and  maybe  more,  and  they  would  live  in  New 
York,  in  future,  only  part  of  the  time.  And  then  she 
went  on  to  say  that  I  was  to  hold  her  bouquet  at  the 
wedding,  and  have  a  lovely  costume,  with  dress  and 
hat,  and  shoes  and  silk  stockings,  all  of  a  color  to 
match. 

This  pleased  me,  but  not  as  much  as  if  I  had  not  had 
other  important  things  to  talk  of. 

"  Are  you  going  to  take  me  with  you  to  Europe?"  I 
asked  ;  and  I  thought  that  my  voice  sounded  queer,  like 


To  M.  L.  G.  107 

Dearie's  used  to  sound  when  it  trembled  as  she  told  Boy 
not  to  run  up  and  down-stairs. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  The  Baron  thinks  you're  a 
very  nice  little  girl,  but  he  wouldn't  care  for  that."  She 
loved  to  speak  of  Mr.  Hemrich  as  "  The  Baron." 

"  Then  I  am  going  to  live  with  Miss  Smith  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  wouldn't  do,  either,"  Madame  went  on,  still 
with  her  eyes  shut,  as  if  she  did  not  care  to  have  mine 
meet  hers.  "  Miss  Smith  doesn't  love  children.  Besides, 
she  may  make  changes  in  the  house.  The  Baron  and  I 
have  thought  of  a  nice  plan  for  you,  which  I'm  sure 
you'll  like." 

I  was  not  so  sure,  but  I  waited. 

"  You've  often  said  you'd  love  to  go  on  the  stage,"  she 
began  again.  "  The  Baron  and  I  both  think  you  ought 
to  make  an  actress.  You're  always  mimicking  some  one 
or  other.  I  believe  you've  got  real  talent,  and  so  does 
he.  I  never  saw  your  father,  for  he  didn't  act  much  in 
New  York,  but  I've  heard  he  could  have  made  a  splendid 
actor  if  he  hadn't  been  too  lazy,  and  he  might  have  got 
good  New  York  engagements  if  he  had  had  any  ambi- 
tion. The  trouble  is,  he  didn't  know  people  with  influ- 
ence ;  but  the  Baron  and  I  have  talked  things  over,  and 

thought  of  a  Mrs.  F ,  who  takes  care  of  girls  who 

want  to  go  on  the  stage,  and  gets  them  engagements. 
She  used  to  be  an  actress  herself,  long  ago.  Now  she's 
a  dramatic  agent.  We've  arranged  for  you  to  live  with 
her.  And  because  you've  been  a  good  girl,  and  I'm  fond 
of  you,  I'll  pay  your  board  there  and  all  your  expenses, 
till  you're  sixteen,  if  you  don't  get  an  engagement  so  you 
can  support  yourself  before  that." 

At  this  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  me,  for,  as 


io8  To  M.  L.  G. 

Dearie  would  have  said,  it  was  my  "  cue  "  to  thank  her. 
I  was  really  grateful,  for  I  was  old  enough  now  to  under- 
stand how  little  claim  I  had  ever  had  upon  Madame,  and 
how  I  owed  everything  to  her  generosity,  since  my 
mother  would  not  even  hear  my  name.  But  because  I 
had  never  been  able  to  love  her,  I  was  more  critical  than 
I  could  have  been  if  affection  had  glossed  over  her  little 
faults  and  peculiarities.  Although  only  a  child  still,  I 
read  Madame  with  unblinking  eyes,  through  her  various 
affectations. 

"  Thank  you,  Auntie,"  I  said,  as  warmly  as  I  could. 
"  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  get  something  to  do  before  that. 
I'll  try  hard." 

"  Sixteen  is  time  enough,"  she  assured  me,  kindly.  "  I 
can  afford  to  pay  the  little  you'll  cost,  I'm  sure,  and  the 
Baron  approves  of  the  idea.  He's  got  heaps  and  heaps  of 
money,  and  I'm  not  poor  myself.  When  we  come  back 
and  take  a  house  in  New  York,  or  perhaps  an  apartment 
in  some  big  hotel,  you  must  come  and  see  me.  You'll 
be  almost  a  young  lady  by  then,  for  two  or  three  years 
make  a  lot  of  difference  at  your  age." 

Then  she  went  on  quickly  to  tell  me  that  Mrs.  F 

was  fond  of  girls,  and  had  three  daughters  living  with 
her.  There  had  been  others,  but  they  had  gone  on  the 
stage,  and  several  had  been  very  successful. 

In  my  mind  I  saw  Mrs.  F ,  like  the  "  Old  Woman 

in  the  Shoe,"  a  living  representative  of  whom  I  had  once 
seen  at  a  bazaar :  a  big  child  dressed  up  in  cap  and 
spectacles,  and  a  crossed  fichu,  a  switch  in  her  hand  with 
which  to  strike  the  brood  of  dolls  that  were  crowded  with 
her  into  a  Titanic  slipper. 

The  idea  of  a  great  change  in  my  life,  of  living  with 


To   M.  L.  G.  109 

other  girls,  and  of  learning  how  to  be  an  actress  was  very 
exciting,  and  made  me  feel  almost  grown  up.  I  had  just 
been  reading  a  delightful  book,  with  a  heroine  at  a 
boarding-school,  however,  and  I  would  have  much  pre- 
ferred being  sent  to  such  a  school  as  was  glowingly 
described.  But  perhaps,  I  thought,  it  would  cost  more, 
and  besides  I  could  not  learn  at  a  boarding-school  to  go 
on  the  stage  and  support  myself.  I  knew  I  should  hate 
to  be  a  governess,  like  Miss  Minnie.  Anything  would  be 
better  than  that,  even  to  be  a  cook  ;  though  lately  I  had 
been  praying  again,  at  Miss  Minnie's  request,  and  had 
added  to  a  prayer  of  praise  from  some  old  volume, 
"  Thank  God  I  am  not  deformed,  or  a  cook." 

I  was  too  keenly  interested  in  the  unknown  future  and 
in  picturing  what  it  would  be  like,  to  feel  actively  un- 
happy. Yet  Miss  Minnie's  face  of  distress  when  she 
heard  what  was  to  happen  to  me,  and  that  I  was  to  have 
no  more  teaching  except  for  the  stage,  saddened  me 
somewhat.  Besides,  I  loved  Madame's  rose-haunted 
house,  and  realized  dimly  that  there  would  be  nothing 
half  as  beautiful  in  my  new  life.  At  night  I  would  wake 
up  with  a  start,  and  a  weight  of  depression  would  lie 
upon  my  breast,  till  slowly  I  slipped  away  into  sleep 
again.  At  those  dark  moments  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  instead  of  a  heart  a  great,  misshapen,  cold-boiled 
beet,  exactly  like  those  I  often  saw,  very  red  and  floating 
in  purplish  vinegar,  in  Wilhelmina's  kitchen. 

The  thought  that  I  was  going  to  be  "  flower  girl "  at 
Madame's  wedding  did  not  comfort  me. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MADAME  was  married  in  the  afternoon,  not  in 
church,  but  in  her  own  boudoir,  where  a 
shocked  Congregationalist  minister  performed 
the  ceremony,  looking,  in  his  severe  black,  like  a  crow  in 
a  rose  garden.  The  Baron  was  a  crow  too,  but  sleek  and 
well-fed.  I  was  used  to  the  sight  of  him  in  that  pink 
bower. 

He  had  sent  at  least  a  bushel  of  roses,  and  Miss  Minnie 
and  Clara  and  I  had  decorated  the  boudoir.  I  wore  a 
pink  silk  dress,  and  a  Leghorn  hat  smothered  in  roses. 
For  the  first  time  I  had  silk  stockings,  and  they  were 
pink,  too,  matching  my  pink  shoes,  which  were  orna- 
mented with  huge  silver  buckles  that  reflected  all  the 
pink  things,  and  looked  as  if  they  also  were  pink. 

Only  the  Baron  and  the  younger  Jew  who  was  Miss 
Smith's  "  gentleman  friend,"  Miss  Smith  herself,  now  to 
be  known  as  Madame  St.  C ,  the  new  Baroness's  suc- 
cessor, and  Miss  Minnie  —  red-nosed,  blotched  with  tears, 
awful  to  behold  in  a  green  dress  of  Madame's  —  were  in- 
vited to  the  wedding.  A  splendid  feast  came  from  a 
confectioner's,  and  there  were  piles  of  white,  silver-tied 
boxes  of  wedding-cake,  one  for  each  of  the  guests,  one 
for  each  of  the  "  young  ladies  "  and  work-girls,  who  were 
to  be  kept  on  by  Miss  Smith. 

My  things,  as  well  as  the  bride's,  were  already  packed. 
Her  trousseau  —  such  finery  as  she  cared  to  buy  before 
reaching  Faris  —  wrapped  in  tissue-paper  and  sachet  bags, 

no 


To   M.  L.  G.  ill 

was  folded  away  in  beautiful  new  trunks,  with  her  initials 
and  a  baron's  coronet  on  the  ends.  There  were  coronets 
embroidered  on  her  under-linen  and  handkerchiefs ;  and 
one  of  the  Baron's  wedding  presents  was  a  huge  dressing- 
bag  fitted  with  gold-topped  bottles  and  gold-backed 
brushes,  all  monogrammed  and  coroneted.  I  never  saw 
Madame  look  so  happy  as  when  she  gazed  at  her  display 
of  coronets,  a  few  days  before  the  wedding.  I  think  she 
was  picturing  her  future  return  to  New  York  as  a  Baron- 
ess, when  her  career  as  "  Madame "  would  be  forgotten 
by  society,  or  condoned  because  of  her  husband's  title 
and  fortune. 

I  had  not  yet  seen  Mrs.  F ,  with  whom  I  was  to 

make  my  home  for  the  next  two  or  three  years.  Ma- 
dame had  said  it  would  be  better  to  meet  her  for  the  first 
time  after  the  wedding;  and  when  I  saw  her,  I  guessed  why. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  the  house  was  quiet.  When  the 
bride  and  groom  had  gone,  Miss  Smith  and  her  friend  went 
too.  I  was  left  alone  with  Miss  Minnie,  who  had  cried 
continuously  during  the  ceremony,  and  had  soaked  two 
very  small  handkerchiefs.  She  helped  Clara  put  away 
the  boxes  of  cake  that  were  for  the  "  young  ladies  "  and 
the  "  girls  " ;  and  while  she  was  fussily  engaged  in  this 
work,  sniffing  every  moment,  the  door-bell  rang. 

We  had  known  it  would  ring,  for  Mrs.  F had 

promised  to  call  for  me  before  five  o'clock ;  still,  Miss 
Minnie  seemed  as  much  surprised  and  flustered  as  if  she 
were  upset  by  something  entirely  unexpected. 

After  all,  it  was  not  Mrs.  F who  had  arrived,  but 

her  husband,  of  whom  Madame  had  never  spoken.  He 
would  not  come  up-stairs,  but  sat  waiting  for  me  just 
inside  the  front  door. 


112  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  took  a  last  look  at  the  pretty  rooms  on  the  floor 
where  I  had  lived  with  Madame,  and  with  a  lump  in  my 
throat,  kissed  Miss  Minnie  good-bye. 

"  Remember  you're  to  come  and  see  me  when  you 
can,"  she  said,  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks,  making 
a  kind  of  glaze  over  the  reddened  skin.  "  I'm  always  at 
home  on  Sundays." 

"  Yes,  I'll  try  to  come,  and  tell  you  all  about  every- 
thing," I  answered,  hugging  her.  But  I  never  did  go. 
Everything  was  different.  Already  my  dancing  lessons 
had  been  stopped ;  and  Miss  Minnie  and  I  drifted  out  of 
each  other's  lives. 

She  accompanied  me  timidly  down -stairs,  to  put  me  in 

charge  of  Mr.  F ,  whose  existence  was  of  so  little 

importance  that  I  had  not  even  been  told  of  it. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the  vestibule ;  a  small,  thin 
man,  hollow-chested,  and  dressed  with  extreme  neatness 
in  the  worst  possible  taste.  He  wore  a  short  alpaca 
coat,  over  a  white  waistcoat,  which  was  frayed  along  the 
edges,  and  on  his  almost  bald  head  a  tall  silk  hat,  which 
came  down  nearly  as  far  as  his  prominent  ears.  After- 
wards, when  I  knew  him  better,  I  observed  that  his  hat 
rose  on  his  head,  like  a  boat  on  the  tide,  when  his  hair 
remained  uncut  for  a  long  time.  That  day  was  his 
monthly  date  for  having  it  almost  shaved. 

Once  I  had  seen  a  face  carved  out  of  a  turnip,  done  by 
a  boy  in  our  street,  who  was  clever  at  vegetable  sculp- 
ture. Mr.  F 's  narrow  white  face  reminded  me  of 

the  turnip,  with  its  flat  nose  and  long  chin,  and  little  dim 
eyes  like  holes  scooped  out.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  mum- 
bling voice,  explaining  that  he  had  come  in  his  wife's 
place,  to  take  me  home. 


To   M.  L.  G.  113 

Miss  Minnie  and  I  kissed  each  other  again.  I  shook 
hands  with  Clara ;  and  Wilhelmina,  whom  I  had  bidden 
farewell,  waved  at  me  from  the  workroom  window  as  I 
looked  up  from  the  street. 

My  trunk  was  to  be  sent ;  but  Mr.  F carried  my 

bag,  a  present  from  Madame,  which  had  once  been  hers. 
We  walked  until  we  came  to  a  street  where  there  were 
trolley  cars.  In  one  of  these  we  went  across  town,  and 
then,  changing  to  the  "  elevated,"  dashed  down  town  for 

a  number  of  blocks.  I  sat  beside  Mr.  F ,  but  he 

made  no  attempt  at  conversation,  and  though  his  jaws 
worked  constantly,  showing  a  play  of  muscles  in  his  thin 
cheeks,  as  if  he  were  chewing  something,  he  did  not 
open  his  lips  except  to  tell  me  when  it  was  time  to  alight 
from  the  train,  or  which  way  to  turn  in  the  street. 
Neither  did  he  look  at  me,  as  though  I  were  a  person 
with  features  to  be  remembered  if  he  wanted  to  recog- 
nize me  again.  When  his  eyes  turned  in  my  direction 
for  any  reason,  their  gaze  seemed  to  slide  over  and  past 
my  face,  as  water  slides  over  a  round,  polished  surface 
without  leaving  any  drops.  He  sat  gazing  straight 
ahead,  as  the  trolley  car  took  us  across  town,  and  again 
in  the  crowded  elevated,  his  jaws  working  just  percepti- 
bly, with  an  expression  even  more  remote  from  the 
world  than  mere  absent-mindedness.  The  notion  flitted 
into  my  mind  that  it  was  the  look  a  ghost's  face  might 
have,  in  haunting  the  place  where  it  had  lived  in  the 
body,  as  Rose  and  Maud  had  told  me  many  spirits  did  : 
a  look  of  knowing  that  it  was  forever  out  of  human 
affairs,  and  that  nothing  of  any  interest  or  joy  could 
possibly  come  to  it  in  this  world. 

I  was  not  hurt  that  Mr.  F did  not  talk  to  me,  or 


u4  To  M-  L-  G- 

appear  to  know  that  I  was  with  him.  Without  under- 
standing why,  I  pitied  him  deeply. 

His  first  words  were  spoken  when  we  had  walked  a 
short  distance,  after  the  quick  rush  in  the  elevated. 
"  Here  we  are.  We  go  up-stairs,"  he  said,  at  the  corner 
of  a  noisy  street  where  there  were  shops  and  offices, 
some  of  which  were  closed,  because  it  was  Saturday 
afternoon. 

We  had  stopped  in  front  of  a  brick  building,  where 
a  florist  did  business  on  the  ground  floor ;  and  above( 
many  names  were  painted  on  large  or  small  sign-boards  • 
names  of  lawyers ;  doctors  who  cured  diseases  by  means 
of  patent  medicines  or  electricity;  dressmakers  and 
corset- makers,  and  others  that  I  have  forgotten.  But 
my  eye  quickly  picked  out  among  them  the  name  of  Mrs. 
F ,  Dramatic  Agent. 

Over  a  side  door  was  another,  smaller  sign-board,  with 
her  advertisement  instructing  the  public  to  enter  there 
and  find  her  offices  on  the  second  floor. 

"  Is  this  only  the  office,  or  is  it  your  house  ?  "  I  dared 
to  ask,  as  Mr.  F opened  the  door. 

"  It's  both,"  he  said,  and  stood  aside  with  patient, 
weary  politeness,  for  me  to  go  first  up  the  dirty  wooden 
stairway.  The  thought  came  to  me  that  this  man  was 
used  to  standing  aside  for  every  one  to  go  ahead  of  him ; 
and  that  it  was  not  good  for  men,  or  even  for  women,  to 
have  lost  all  self-assertion. 

At  sight  of  those  stairs,  and  as  the  close  smell  of  the 
house  (a  smell  made  up  from  many  faded  odors)  struck 
into  my  lungs,  memories  crowded  back  to  me.  The  old 
sordidness  of  life,  as  it  had  been  when  I  was  a  child, 
seemed  to  take  form  and  rise  before  my  eyes  like  a  huge, 


To   M.  L.  G.  115 

smoke-wreathed  Genius  boiling  up  out  of  a  bottle.  De- 
tails of  existence  in  the  two  theatrical  boarding-houses, 
features  of  the  houses  themselves,  which  I  had  seemed  to 
forget,  turned  themselves  over  in  my  memory,  as  one 
comes  upon  old  dresses  packed  away  in  trunks  that  have 
stood  for  years  in  a  garret. 

My  interest  in  the  future  collapsed,  like  a  child's  bal- 
loon when  it  is  pricked.  I  felt  as  if  I  must  run  away, 
and  get  back  to  Madame's  at  once.  But  there  was  no 
longer  a  Madame  for  me.  She  was  a  Baroness,  on  her 
way  to  Europe,  and  nothing  was  left  of  her  except  the 
clothes  she  had  given  me,  and  the  address  of  a  banker 
in  Paris.  I  told  myself,  with  a  stab  of  homesickness,  as 
if  for  a  home  burnt  down  and  destroyed  off  the  face  of 
the  earth,  that  1  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  things 
here  for  a  while.  Then,  when  there  came  a  sting  of 
tears  behind  my  eyes,  I  thought  of  Jenny  Elmore  and  the 
Bible.  As  usual,  the  recipe  answered  its  purpose,  and 
by  the  time  we  had  got  to  the  second  floor  the  tears  had 
dried. 

It  was  very  hot,  and  smelt  of  leaking  gas,  in  the  nar- 
row corridor  outside  Mrs.  F 's  rooms.  Also,  it  was 

dim  with  a  perpetual,  dusty  twilight,  for  there  was  no 
other  light  except  what  filtered  through  a  dirty  transom 
over  the  front  door,  and  a  little  that  found  its  way  up  from 
below. 

The  front  room  was  an  office  of  the  agency,  and  had 
a  great  deal  of  black  lettering  on  a  yellow  door.  Farther 

on  was  another  door,  with  Mrs.  F 's  name  on  it  again, 

and  the  one  word,  "  Private."  Beyond,  were  three  more 
doors,  two  along  the  side  of  the  corridor,  and  one  at  the 
end.  On  these  there  was  no  lettering ;  but  many  names 


u6  To   M.  L.  G. 

and  sentences  were  scrawled  in  pencil,  and  there  were 
quantities  of  rough  sketches,  caricatures  of  men  and 
women  with  big  heads,  or  enormous  feet,  lovers  embrac- 
ing each  other,  and  goblin  children  with  thumbs  to  their 
noses,  or  tongues  sticking  out.  I  had  time  to  study 
these  for  a  moment,  dark  on  the  dirty  yellow  paint,  as 

Mr.  F fumbled  to  unlock  one  of  the  doors  with  a 

latch-key  he  wore  on  a  black  tape,  like  a  wide  shoe-string. 

There  was  silence  on  the  other  side,  and  when  he  had 
got  the  door  open,  I  saw  that  the  room  into  which  it  led 
was  empty. 

It  might  almost  have  been  the  parlor  in  one  of  my  old 
homes,  except  that  it  was  evidently  a  dining  as  well  as  a 
living-room.  There  was  a  queer  family  resemblance  in  the 
furniture  of  this  room  to  others  once  familiar  to  me.  Even 
the  smell  was  the  same.  It  was  like  getting  back  into  the 
past  through  the  door  of  a  dream.  Often,  at  night,  I  had 
gone  back  through  that  door,  though  each  year  less  often, 
as  the  memories  were  blurred  by  new  impressions ;  but 
always  I  was  relieved  to  wake  up  and  find  that  I  had 
been  dreaming.  Now,  it  was  all  real,  and  there  was  no 
door  through  which  I  could  run  away,  and  escape  to 
something  better. 

The  window  looked  out  on  the  side  street.  There  was 
a  red  blind,  half  pulled  down,  and  hanging  crooked,  be- 
cause the  roller  was  coming  out  at  one  end.  In  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  a  table,  covered  with  a  spotted 
red  cloth,  which  could  be  washed,  but  evidently  had  not 
been  for  some  time.  In  the  middle  was  a  pile  of  little 
fringed  napkins  of  the  same  color,  lying  crumpled  up. 
There  were  books  and  illustrated  papers,  too,  in  con- 
fusion, and  some  had  fallen  on  the  floor.  I  saw  pictures 


To   M.  L.  G.  117 

of  policemen  arresting  black  men,  and  women  being 
murdered.  There  was  a  huddle  of  chairs  and  sofas, 
covered  with  torn  reps  and  horsehair ;  tiny  tables  pushed 
against  the  wall,  with  dishes  piled  on  bound  volumes  of 
magazines ;  and  there  were  a  number  of  old-fashioned 
cabinets  and  cupboards,  filled  to  overflowing  with  all 
kinds  of  indescribable  things  that  protruded  through 
half-open  glass  doors.  Photographs,  big  and  little, 
framed  and  unframed,  but  all  of  actors  and  actresses, 
were  hung  or  tacked  on  the  walls,  mostly  crooked,  and 
stuck  round  the  frame  of  the  mantelpiece  mirror,  just  as 
they  had  been  in  the  old  boarding-houses.  On  chairs 
and  sofas  hats  and  jackets  had  been  flung,  and  were  trail- 
ing on  the  floor,  that  was  covered  with  grayish  carpet 
from  which  the  pattern  was  almost  worn  away.  So  full 
was  the  room  of  furniture  and  fallen  odds  and  ends,  that 
there  was  hardly  space  to  move. 

Mr.  F opened  a  door  into  an  untidy  bedroom, 

with  one  bed,  that  had  been  half  made  up  in  a  hurry. 
Since  then,  somebody  had  evidently  lain  on  it,  for  there 
was  a  deep  dent  in  the  middle,  which  showed  that  the 
bed  was  of  feathers.  The  clothing  of  a  man  and  a  woman 
hung  from  hooks  on  the  wall,  and  nothing  was  in  order. 

Through  this  room  I  was  led  to  another,  of  about  the 
same  size,  and  of  much  the  same  appearance,  except  that 
there  were  two  beds,  close  together ;  and  hanging  or  lying 
about,  a  quantity  of  light-colored  dresses  and  hats  such 
as  young  girls  might  wear.  There  was  only  one  bureau 
or  dressing-table,  and  a  very  small  wash-stand,  littered 
with  bottles.  Besides  these  objects,  there  was  no  other 
furniture,  with  the  exception  of  a  trunk  covered  with  a 
red  table-cloth,  and  two  chairs,  one  of  which  had  the  back 


u8  To   M.  L.  G. 

broken  off.  A  faint,  stale  smell  of  drainage,  and  of  un- 
aired  woollen  things  pervaded  the  whole  flat. 

"  Mrs.  F and  the  girls  will  be  in  before  long,  I 

guess,"  my  guide  said,  in  his  remote  voice;  and  set  down 
my  bag  on  one  of  the  beds,  neither  of  which  had  been 
properly  made. 

I  had  to  think  again  of  Jenny  Elmore  and  the  Bible. 
But  in  my  heart  resentment  stirred  against  Madame. 
Always  I  had  known  that  she  did  not  love  me,  and  more 
than  once  I  had  been  glad,  because  of  my  unconquerable 
coldness  for  her.  But  at  this  minute  I  realized,  as  I  never 
had  before,  how  indifferent  she  was,  when  her  need  of  me 
was  past.  When  I  had  been  with  her,  a  part  of  the  pic- 
ture in  which  she  was  the  central  figure,  Madame  had 
grudged  no  expense  for  me.  Now,  it  would  matter  noth- 
ing to  her  if  I  degenerated  in  body  and  mind,  taking  on 
the  color  of  my  surroundings,  like  a  chameleon  :  her  eyes 
would  not  be  offended  by  the  disgusting  sight.  If  she 
had  sent  me  to  boarding-school  I  should  have  been  a 

burden  on  her  and  the  Baron.  With  Mrs.  F and  her 

daughters,  I  would  be  removed  to  a  different  world. 

These  thoughts  filled  my  heart  with  bitterness.  I  was 
hardly  thirteen ;  but  as  I  stood  alone  in  the  frowsy  room 

which  I  was  to  share  with  Mrs.  F "s  girls,  I  felt  old, 

and  as  if  I  would  grow  up  to  be  wicked. 


I 


CHAPTER  X 

DID  not  want  to  make  the  best  of  things.     I  could 
not  bear  to  begin  unpacking  my  bag,  and  I  left  it 

on  the  bed  where  it  had  been  put  by  Mr.  F . 

Feeling  the  dumb  anger  of  one  who  had  been  shut  up  in 
prison  without  having  committed  a  crime,  I  sat  on  the 
chair  without  a  back,  waiting  for  I  knew  not  what.  By 
and  by  I  ceased  to  feel  at  all.  A  huge  fly  was  bumbling 
against  the  window-pane,  and  my  whole  interest  in  life 
concentrated  in  him.  I  thought  that  he  was  very  silly, 
trying  to  get  out,  when  nothing  he  could  do  would  help 
him,  and  I  said  to  myself  that,  if  God  were  looking  at  me, 
He  would  not  have  to  think  as  scornfully  of  me  as  I  was 
thinking  of  the  fly.  I  did  not  mean  to  try  and  get  out. 

Half  an  hour  may  have  passed  while  I  watched  the  fly, 
dully,  and  then  the  door  opened,  without  a  knock.  A 
woman  stood  looking  at  me.  She  was  so  tall  and  stout, 
and  her  big  black  hat  had  such  a  spreading  tuft  of 
feathers,  that  she  seemed  a  giantess,  filling  the  whole 
doorway. 

For  a  minute  neither  she  nor  I  spoke.  We  were  judg- 
ing each  other,  I  less  deliberately  than  she.  My  eyes 
told  me  that  she  was  a  mountain  of  flesh  and  good- 
nature ;  but  something  behind  my  eyes  said  that  she  was 
terrible.  I  felt  the  thrill  of  what  she  hid  under  the  smil- 
ing wrinkles  round  her  eyes,  as  a  sensitive  person  might 
feel  a  cat  crouching  behind  a  velvet  curtain.  Her  eyes 
were  pale  as  moonstones,  and  expressionless  beneath 

119 


120  To   M.  L.  G. 

long,  prominent  lids  like  a  crocodile's.  Under  her  big 
hat,  her  hair  was  thin  and  streaked  with  gray.  Though 
her  clothes  were  suitable  only  for  a  young  woman,  she 
seemed  to  have  no  vanity,  for  she  was  not  made  up  at 
all,  and  she  stooped  forward  so  that  her  double  chin  ap- 
peared to  melt  into  her  great  bust.  Her  silk  mantle  and 
elaborately  trimmed  dress  looked  expensive,  like  her  hat ; 
yet  they  had  the  air  of  not  being  made  for  her.  After- 
wards I  found  out  that  she  got  everything  from  a 
superior  second-hand  clothes  dealer,  who  bought  from 
ladies'  maids,  and  did  a  large  business  with  theatrical 
people. 

I  knew  that  this  must  be  Mrs.  F ,  and  I  thought 

that  the  dislike  I  conceived  for  her  was  because  of  her 
white  fat,  and  her  great  eyelids  and  double  chin;  for 
always  I  have  disliked  double  chins  more  than  any  other 
disfigurement  on  man  or  woman.  Yet  I  felt  dimly  that 
there  was  some  other  reason,  more  mysterious.  One  is 
not  afraid  of  double  chins ;  and  I  was  afraid  of  Mrs. 
F .  I  felt  dominated  by  her. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  a  deep  voice,  "  so  you've  come  ? 
My  girls  ought  to  be  in  pretty  soon.  I  guess  they've 
been  around  on  an  ice-cream  hunt  with  some  of  their 
friends,  after  the  matinee." 

I  had  no  other  greeting  from  Mrs.  F .  She  did 

not  say  that  she  was  glad  to  see  me,  or  that  she  hoped 
I  might  be  happy.  I  realized  that  personally  I  was  of 
slight  importance  to  her,  and  that  she  saw  no  necessity 
to  put  herself  out  for  me.  Still,  she  lingered,  unfasten- 
ing her  cream  silk  mantle,  and  taking  the  pins  out  of  her 
hat,  which  instantly  fell  to  one  side  on  her  thin  hair. 
When  she  moved,  her  body  billowed  all  over,  with  every 


To  M.  L.  G.  121 

slow  step.  I  thought  of  Mr.  F ,  and  wondered  why 

they  had  married  each  other. 

"  Was  it  a  nice  wedding  ?  "  she  inquired,  in  a  careless 
tone,  as  if  she  had  known  me  a  long  time. 

I  said  yes,  it  was  very  pretty,  and  was  surprised  at 
my  shyness,  for  I  was  not  used  to  being  shy  and  self- 
conscious,  even  with  strangers.  She  hardly  listened,  and 
had  apparently  lost  interest  in  the  subject,  for  immedi- 
ately she  went  on  to  say  that  I  was  tall  and  well- developed 
for  my  age.  "  I  expect  we'll  get  you  something  to  do 
before  long,"  she  added. 

"  Do  you  mean  on  the  stage  ? "  I  asked.  Her  eyes 
were  fascinating  me.  They  were  almost  white,  with 
thin  dark  rings  round  the  iris,  and  very  small  pupils, 
like  little  black  holes  pricked  with  pins  in  the  pale  gray. 
It  was  difficult  to  look  away  from  them. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  That's  what  my  business  is,  to  put 
folks  on  the  stage  and  get  them  places  once  they're  on," 
she  explained.  "  My  dramatic  agency  mayn't  be  the 
swellest  in  New  York,  but  there  ain't  another  that  can 
beat  it.  I'm  too  busy  to  train  you,  or  any  of  my  girls, 
but  I  see  that  you  get  training.  They're  all  in  good 
summer  engagements  now." 

"Is  it  three  daughters  you've  got,  Mrs.  F ?"  I 

asked,  almost  stammering  in  my  queer  new  timidity. 

"  Ye-es,"  she  replied,  drawling.  And  she  gave  me 
a  strange  look  from  under  the  corners  of  her  drooping 
eyelids. 

Just  then  two  girls  came  in.  They  were  both  rather 
pretty,  and  much  older  than  I  had  expected,  because 
Madame  had  told  me  that  they  were  about  my  age.  I 
thought  that  they  must  be  at  least  fifteen,  and  it  struck 


122  To   M.  L.  G. 

me  as  odd  that  neither  one  should  look  older  nor  younger 
than  the  other.  Yet  they  were  so  unlike,  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  that  they  might  be  twins.  One  was  dark 
and  thin,  with  bright  eyes  and  a  face  like  an  eager  bird. 
The  other  was  plump,  with  frizzy  brown  hair,  and  the 
deepest  dimples  I  ever  saw.  Her  mouth  pursed  itself 
constantly,  so  as  to  display  them.  Both  girls  were  rouged 
and  powdered,  and  had  their  eyelashes  blackened.  They 
wore  their  hair  down  their  backs,  under  frilled,  childish 
hats,  though  their  dresses  came  nearly  to  their  insteps. 
They  seemed  to  be  great  friends,  and  I  felt  like  an  out- 
sider, very  young  and  insignificant.  I  longed  to  be  as 
old  as  they  were,  and  have  a  large  bust  and  a  squeezed-in 
waist.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it  would  be  delightful 
to  wear  a  corset. 

Mrs.  F and  the  girls  did  not  speak  to  each  other, 

not  even  to  give  a  cheery  "  hello,"  such  as  Madame 
usually  threw  to  me  when  she  came  in.  They  glanced  at 
each  other  coolly,  and  I  thought  the  girls'  eyes  looked 

insolent.  But  as  soon  as  Mrs.  F had  gone  slowly 

billowing  out,  shutting  the  door  loudly,  their  faces 
changed.  They  smiled  at  me,  with  hardly  any  conde- 
scension. "  New  Kid  "  they  called  me,  and  asked  each 
other  "  which  side  I  would  be  on." 

Although  they  did  not  put  the  question  to  me,  they 
looked  as  if  they  expected  me  to  answer,  and,  as  I  was 
longing  to  know  what  they  meant,  I  ventured  to  ask. 
Then  they  both  laughed. 

"  I  wonder  if  we  can  trust  her  ? "  they  said,  again  to 
each  other. 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  I  replied  emphatically. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  take  sides  here,"  said  Julia,  the 


To  M.  L.  G.  123 

dark  one.  "  Kit  and  I've  been  betting  whether  you'll 
be  on  ours  or  the  enemy's.  But  I  warn  you,  you  won't 
get  much  good  out  of  the  enemy.  They're  all  for  them- 
selves." 

"  Who  is  the  enemy  ?  "  I  begged  her  to  tell  me. 

"  The  old  cat  and  the  young  one,"  said  Julia. 

"  She  means  Mrs.  F and  Fifi,"  Kitty  explained. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  explain  more,  if  she  had  in- 
tended to  go  on,  because  at  that  minute  the  door  opened, 
and  a  third  girl  came  in,  whistling  a  tune  sweetly  and 
cleverly. 

She  stopped  whistling  when  she  saw  me,  but  began 
again,  taking  up  the  air  where  she  had  left  it  off.  She, 
too,  appeared  to  be  exactly  the  same  age  as  the  others. 
A  bunch  of  black  curls  was  tied  back  with  a  butterfly 
bow  of  red  ribbon.  She  had  a  drooping  Leghorn  hat, 
with  a  wreath  of  poppies,  and  a  white  lace  dress,  slightly 
soiled,  but  more  expensive-looking  than  Julia's  or  Kitty's 
frocks.  She  was  inclined  to  be  too  fat  already,  but  her 
waist  was  slender,  and,  as  she  could  breathe  only  at  the 
top  of  her  lungs,  her  full  breast  rose  and  fell  like  a  wave. 
I  thought  that  very  attractive  ;  but,  though  this  girl  was 
handsomer  than  the  others,  I  disliked  her  at  once.  She  was 
dark,  darker  than  many  Spanish  women  I  have  seen  since, 
and  had  moist  lips  as  red  and  polished  as  coral ;  yet  there 
was  an  indefinable  likeness  between  her  and  Mrs.  F . 

Julia  and  Kitty  stopped  talking  for  an  instant  when 
she  broke  in ;  but  began  again,  in  loud  voices,  as  if  to 
drown  her  whistling.  She  scattered  her  hat,  her  long 
white  silk  gloves,  her  handkerchief,  and  bag  about  the 
untidy  room,  and  then  sauntered  to  the  door,  but  checked 
herself  there,  as  if  on  a  sudden  thought. 


124  To  M-  L-  G- 

"  You've  got  to  take  her  in  with  you,  Kit,"  she  said. 
"  It's  no  good  pretending  to  forget,  'cause  I'm  not  going 
to  have  a  strange  girl  in  my  bed,  that's  settled." 

"  You're  a  selfish  cat,  Fifi,"  said  Kit.  "  You  know 
perfectly  well  that  our  bed's  smaller  than  yours.  You 
want  the  earth." 

"  I  won't  change  beds,  and  I  won't  have  a  stranger ;  so 
if  Julia  don't  want  to  sleep  with  me,  you  can  all  three 
squash  in  together,"  was  the  answer;  and  I  no  longer 
had  any  difficulty  in  deciding  which  "  side  "  I  would  be  on. 

I  expected  the  other  two  to  make  a  firm  stand  against 
the  "  enemy,"  but  to  my  surprise,  Kitty  turned  her  back 
and  Julia  shrugged  her  shoulders,  merely  saying,  "  Have 
it  your  own  way,  pig." 

Fifi  took  up  her  whistling  again,  and  skipped  out  of 
the  room,  giving  the  door  a  bang. 

"  Sweet  angel,  isn't  she  ?  "  said  Julia. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  it  wouldn't  be  murder  to  smother 
her  with  a  pillow,  and  sit  on  her  face,"  added  Kitty, 
looking  fierce  in  spite  of  the  dimples. 

They  both  glared  at  the  door,  which  had  hardly  ceased 
quivering  after  the  slam.  From  the  next  room  came  the 

sound  of  loud  laughter,  Mrs.  F 's  voice  and  Fifi's 

together.  The  two  voices  were  oddly  alike. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  Julia  asked  me. 

"  I  was  wondering  why  you  let  her  have  her  own 
way,"  I  admitted  frankly,  for  I  was  not  afraid  of  Julia  or 
Kitty.  Already  we  were  allies,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
understand  the  situation. 

"  Because,  when  you  know  a  thing's  got  to  be,  you 
look  like  a  fool  if  you  make  a  fuss,"  Julia  answered. 
"  What  Fifi  wants  goes  in  this  house.  The  old  cow 


To   M.  L.  G.  125 

would  only  come  in  and  roar  and  raise  hell,  and  we'd 
have  to  give  in." 

Kitty  burst  out  laughing.  "  The  kid  is  shocked,"  she 
chuckled,  putting  the  thumb  and  third  finger  of  her 
right  hand  into  her  two  dimples,  with  a  trick  she  had 
when  she  wished  to  break  a  laugh  off  in  the  middle. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  I  contradicted  her,  eagerly.  "  Only 
it's  funny  to  hear  you  talk  about  your  mother  and  sister 
the  way  you  do." 

"  Mother  —  and  sister  ! "  they  both  echoed,  scornfully. 

«  Well  —  aren't  they  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Good  lord  !  "  Julia  exclaimed.  "  I  didn't  know  you 
were  as  green  as  that !  " 

I  hurried  to  tell  her  that  my  information  came  from 
Madame.  "  She  said  Mrs.  F had  three  daughters." 

"  She's  had  a  lot  of  daughters  like  us,  and  will  have 
more,  I  guess,"  said  Julia,  with  cutting  sharpness.  "  How 
old  do  you  suppose  I  am  ?  " 

"  Fifteen,"  I  guessed. 

"  You've  hit  it.  And  Kitty  ?  She's  fifteen  too.  So's 
the  pig,  Fifi.  Now  did  you  ever  hear  of  three  sisters 
being  all  the  same  age,  unless  they  were  triplets  ?  " 

"  No  —  o,"  I  replied,  ashamed  of  what  seemed  like 
stupidity. 

"  Neither  did  any  one  else.  I  thought  you'd  know 
what  everybody  knows.  Kitty  and  I  are  no  relation  to 

each  other,  or  to  the  F s'.  Fifi's  the  only  child  the 

old  cow  ever  had,  so  far  as  I've  heard,  and  she's  no  rela- 
tion to  the  gentleman  of  the  house.  The  cow  was  good- 
looking  once,  they  say.  Fifi's  father  was  a  Portuguese 
opera  singer.  He's  disappeared  into  space,  about  fifteen 
years  ago,  I  should  think." 


126  To  M.  L.  G. 

I  tried  to  look  as  if  these  explanations  of  family 
affairs  did  not  surprise  me,  for  I  was  sure  that  not  to 
know  about  such  things  would  make  me  ridiculously 
childish  in  the  eyes  of  the  girls. 

"  Did  Mrs.  F adopt  you  both  when  you  were 

babies  ?  "  I  asked  as  boldly  as  I  could. 

"  Yes,  she  loved  babies  so  much,  she  thought  no  home 
was  complete  without  'em,"  said  Julia;  but  Kitty  scolded 
her  for  teasing  me,  and  advised  her  to  tell  me  the  facts 
plainly,  if  she  wanted  me  to  know  them. 

"  I  don't  care  much  whether  she  knows  them  or  not," 
Julia  grumbled.  However,  she  went  on  in  her  bitter, 

strident  way,  to  explain  that  Mrs.  F had  another 

business,  separate  from  her  dramatic  agency,  yet  indirectly 
connected  with  it.  Between  the  two  girls,  who  kept  on 
interrupting  one  another,  each  flinging  a  few  disjointed 
facts  at  me,  I  was  able  to  piece  fragments  together.  I 
made  out  that  actresses  who  were  not  married  occasion- 
ally had  babies.  That  when  there  were  no  relatives  to 
take  the  babies,  they  could  be  adopted  by  women  like 

Mrs.  F .  She,  and  others  in  the  same  line  of  business, 

would  for  a  certain  sum  of  money  take  charge  of  the 

children,  and  bring  them  up  after  a  fashion.  Mrs.  F 

had  been  doing  this  for  a  great  many  years,  ever  since 

she  grew  too  fat  to  sing  in  opera,  and  married  Mr.  F . 

Some  people  said  that  they  were  not  really  married. 
Others  said  he  had  been  paid  to  marry  her,  and  get  her 
out  of  the  way  of  a  rich  man  she  had  blackmailed.  Any- 
way, Mr.  F dared  not  call  his  soul  his  own.  He  was 

a  dead  man,  only  that  she  made  him  work,  kept  his  nose 
to  the  grindstone,  and  grudged  him  tobacco.  She 
grudged  things  to  everybody,  except  Fifi,  her  idol.  For 


To  M.  L.  G.  127 

Fifi  the  sun  rose  and  set.  Mrs.  F had  sacrificed  all 

girls  to  her  own  girl,  since  Fifi  was  born.  There  had 
been  six  or  seven  others,  daughters  of  women  not  mar- 
ried, with  one  or  two  exceptions ;  now  and  then  a  widow 
wanted  to  take  a  second  husband,  and  had  to  find  a  home 
for  a  troublesome  baby.  The  girls  were  all  on  the  stage. 
Some  were  successful ;  others  had  gone  west  and  disap- 
peared. One  had  died,  after  a  scandal  which  had  caused 
a  "  society  divorce."  Julia  and  Kitty  were  not  supposed 
to  know  the  names  of  their  mothers,  but  they  did  know, 
or  thought  they  knew,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  mention 
names.  Indeed,  they  seemed  proud,  rather  than  ashamed, 
for  both  women  were  successful.  One  was  still  "  star- 
ring," and  I  had  seen  her  act.  The  other  had  married, 
and  left  the  stage.  I  could  hardly  believe  that  the  story 

the  girls  told  me  concerning  Mrs.  F and  themselves 

was  true,  but  I  did  not  dare  suggest  that  they  were  mis- 
taken. I  still  think  that  many  details  must  have  been 
embroidered  by  their  imagination. 

We  spoke  in  low  tones,  and  paused  sometimes  to  listen 
for  the  laughter  and  murmur  of  voices  in  the  next  room. 

I  half  expected  Mrs.  F to  break  in  upon  us,  and  say 

that  she  knew  what  we  were  talking  about,  but  Julia  and 
Kitty,  who  saw  my  eyes  wander  to  the  door,  assured  me 
that  Mrs.  F would  not  mind  what  they  told  me. 

"  She  ain't  ashamed  of  anything,"  Julia  said.  "  She 
doesn't  care  whether  you  know  or  not.  What  harm  can 
'you  do  to  her  ?  We  hate  her,  and  she  hates  us,  but  we 
go  on  living  here  till  we  can  get  an  engagement  in  a  road 
company,  because  there's  nowhere  else  to  go ;  and  you'll 
have  to  do  just  the  same.  She  won't  let  Fifi  take  any- 
thing out  of  New  York,  but  she'll  find  us  something  on 


128  To   M.  L.  G. 

the  road  as  soon  as  she  can,  and  bring  along  another  girl 
from  the  country." 

When  I  asked  what  the  "  country  "  meant  they  both 
began  wildly  talking  together  again,  telling  me  about  a 

farm  which  belonged  to  a  brother  of  Mrs.  F 's.  Her 

"  daughters  "  were  kept  there,  the  girls  explained,  till 
they  were  old  enough  to  take  children's  parts  on  the 
stage.  Then  they  were  brought  to  the  city,  sent  to  school 
for  a  while,  trained  to  sing  or  dance  if  they  had  talent,  or 
put  into  "  productions  "  of  some  sort,  so  that  they  might 
learn  to  act. 

"  We've  been  here,  in  and  out  of  engagements,  for  five 
years,"  Julia  said,  "  but  we've  never  got  anything  decent 
yet,  because  Fifi's  always  had  the  best  child's  part  the  old 
cow  can  grab.  And  outsiders  come  next ;  because  we're 
paid  for,  anyhow,  so  she  goes  for  a  good  commission." 

I  felt  deeply,  though  vaguely  dispirited.  The  girls 
made  the  world  seem  a  horrible  place,  more  horrible  than 
I  had  known  it  could  be,  for  at  the  old  boarding-houses, 
I  was  too  young  to  be  impressed  by  scandals.  I  said 
that,  if  Julia  and  Kitty  went  "  on  the  road,"  I  hoped  I 
might  g°  with  them ;  but  they  replied  indifferently  that 
it  was  not  likely  we  could  all  get  into  the  same  company. 
They  were  old  enough  to  play  ingenues  now,  but  I  would 
have  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  work  slowly  up. 

Already  I  felt  heartsick  at  the  thought  of  their  leaving 
me  alone  with  Mrs.  F and  Fifi. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  F s'  flat  had  been  meant  for  offices,  and 
had  few  conveniences  for  family  life.     There 
was  no  proper  kitchen,  no  bath,  and  no  place 
to  keep  anything.     A   woman   came  in  the  morning  to 
wash  dishes  and  do  a  little  cooking.     Other  work  we  did 
ourselves,  or  left  undone,  such  as  bed-making.     We  never 
swept  the  floors,  but  when  rolls  of  dust  collected,  we 
brushed  them  under  the  beds.     Most  of  the  food  we  ate 
was  sent  in  ready  cooked,  or  came  out  of  tins,  and  there 
were  no  regular  meal  times. 

I  missed  the  clean  white  bathroom  more  than  any- 
thing else  at  Madame's  pretty  house ;  and  having  learned 
to  love  a  hot  or  cold  plunge,  I  could  not  be  content  with 
a  little  perfunctory  splashing.  I  spent  what  seemed  to 
the  other  girls  a  ridiculous  time  in  washing ;  and  they 
laughed  at  me  because,  being  used  of  late  to  dressing 
alone,  I  was  shy  about  showing  my  body.  I  would  build 
up  a  screen  of  the  two  chairs,  draped  with  my  clothes, 
to  hide  me  as  I  stood  on  a  towel  sponging  myself  from 
head  to  foot.  But  before  many  weeks  had  passed,  the 
jokes  made  by  the  others  on  my  "  modesty  "  frightened 
it  away.  I  tried  to  be  bold,  and  became  so.  We  three 
ran  about  without  any  clothing  on,  in  the  warm  weather, 
and  paraded  from  room  to  room  in  our  chemises.  The 
girls  brought  back  from  the  theatre  where  they  were 
playing  queer  stories  and  scandals,  which  they  explained 
to  me,  if  there  were  anything  obscure,  but  I  pretended 

129 


130  To   M.  L.  G. 

to  understand  the  most  baffling  "  second-meanings,"  for 
to  be  "  innocent "  was  to  be  affected,  or  silly,  at  Mrs. 

F 's.     The  girls  were  not  bad  girls,  but  there  was  no 

vileness  of  which  they  were  ignorant,  and  they  thought 
it  "swell"  to  talk  as  they  heard  women  talk  in  the 
dressing-rooms.  The  theatres  where  they  acted  were 
third-rate,  and  "  Oh,  hell ! "  and  "  My  God !  "  were  the 
exclamations  oftenest  on  their  lips.  It  was  a  reminder 
of  old  times  to  hear  these  expressions,  but  I  had  grown 
fastidious  and  did  not  care  to  pick  them  up,  though  I 
imitated  the  older  girls  in  many  ways. 

As  a  child  I  had  sworn  strange  oaths  when  I  wished 
to  make  the  boarders  laugh ;  but  when  my  lady  of  Cali- 
fornia said  that  her  little  girl  would  have  been  whipped 
rather  than  swear,  I  broke  myself  of  the  habit.  I  longed 
to  be  like  her  little  girl.  Then  came  the  years  at  Ma- 
dame's  ;  and  with  her,  though  I  learned  few  good  things 
except  a  love  for  cleanliness,  I  grew  to  value  beauty,  or 
what  I  believed  to  be  beauty,  in  everything,  even  in 
speech.  Madame  avoided  all  that  was  rough  or  coarse ; 
and  it  was  easy  for  me  to  copy  the  carefully  built  up 
refinement  of  her  ways,  because  of  that  natural  thirst  for 
beauty  which  was  born  in  me.  Though  the  girls  teased 
me  unmercifully  and  named  me  "  Primmy,"  I  would  not 
talk  in  their  strange  jargon.  Fifi  was  harder  upon  me 
than  the  others  were,  and  often  Julia  and  Kitty  joined  in 
defending  me  from  her  attacks.  It  was  a  principle  of 
theirs  to  unite  in  disagreeing  with  Fifi.  As  for  me,  they 
could  count  upon  me  to  be  on  their  "  side."  Yet  we 
were  not  always  quarrelling  in  our  dreary  bedroom.  No 
love  was  lost  between  us  and  the  "  enemy,"  but  when  it 
suited  us,  we  agreed  tacitly  to  a  kind  of  armed  truce. 


To  M.  L.  G.  131 

As  weeks  and  months  drifted  aimlessly  on,  I  accus- 
tomed myself  to  the  makeshifts  and  discomforts  at  Mrs. 
F 's,  and  no  longer  noticed  them.  I  took  every- 
thing for  granted,  just  as  I  had  learned  to  take  the 
luxuries  at  Madame's.  Most  of  the  lessons  I  had  learned 
from  Miss  Minnie  I  forgot,  or  seemed  to  forget.  My 
intellect  was  curled  up,  fast  asleep. 

Early  in  the  autumn,  Mrs.  F found  me  an  "  en- 
gagement." I  was  to  dance  with  a  band  of  children  in 
a  big  spectacular  production  at  a  cheap  but  popular 
theatre ;  and  I  revelled  in  the  rehearsals.  I  never  tired 
or  felt  bored,  as  the  older  people  did.  I  could  have  gone 
on  forever.  The  smell  of  the  theatre  excited  me,  and  I 
was  always  sorry  to  leave.  Memories  came  back,  not 
only  of  the  time  when  I  used  to  go  behind  the  scenes 
every  evening  with  Boy  and  Dearie,  but  of  older  days 
when  I  sat  in  dress-baskets,  or  slept  in  them  on  soft  piles 
of  clothing,  and  was  carried  on  to  the  stage  as  a  large 
baby,  in  somebody's  arms. 

Julia  and  Kitty  were  both  in  the  same  "  show,"  as 
they  called  it,  though  in  real  parts,  whereas  I  had  only 
to  dance  and  sing  in  a  children's  chorus.  But  Fifi  was 
promoted  to  a  fashionable  theatre,  one  of  the  best  in 
New  York,  and  had  several  lines  to  speak.  She  was  a 
boy,  in  a  costume  play,  and  was  mentioned  by  critics, 
acquaintances  of  Mrs.  F '.  We  all  envied  her  in- 
tensely, though  we  would  have  put  our  hands  in  the  fire 
rather  than  she  should  know.  Julia  and  Kitty  said  that 
Fifi  could  not  act,  and  never  would ;  but  photographs  of 
her  taken  in  the  new  part  were  very  pretty  and  alluring. 
Seeing  them  made  me  want  more  than  ever  to  grow  up. 

Julia,  who  was  thin,  rubbed  cocoanut  oil  on  her  neck, 


132  To   M.  L.  G. 

night  and  morning,  to  make  it  fat,  and  I  did  the  same, 
hoping  that  it  would  force  my  figure  to  develop  in  a 
hurry,  so  that,  like  Fifi  and  Kitty,  I  might  have  womanly 
curves  and  roundnesses.  After  a  while,  the  oil  really 
seemed  to  make  a  difference  in  my  shape,  or  I  imagined 
it ;  and  I  was  delighted  to  think  that  my  dresses  were 
becoming  too  tight  over  my  chest. 

At  the  theatre  everybody  in  the  big  company  petted 
me,  and  called  me  "  Gipsy,"  or  "  Kid."  I  thought  no 
more  of  sitting  on  the  young  men's  laps  than  if  their 
knees  had  been  chairs.  They  pulled  my  long  hair,  and 
even  pinched  my  calves  sometimes,  to  see  if  they  were 
really  plump,  or  if  I  had  on  "  fats."  They  liked  to  make 
me  take  out  my  little  bitten  wad  of  chewing-gum,  to  sip 
their  beer,  or  beer  mixed  with  gin  and  lemon,  a  favorite 
drink  at  the  theatre,  for  I  would  twist  my  face  into  funny 
grimaces  at  the  queer  taste ;  and  a  very  little  alcohol  flew 
to  my  head.  Then  I  would  babble  silly  things,  which 
set  the  men  laughing.  But  they  treated  me  as  a  child,  and 
I  believe  they  would  have  protected  me  from  real  harm. 

The  spectacular  piece  was  a  huge  success ;  and  after 
running  all  that  winter  and  early  spring  in  New  York,  it 
was  sent  on  the  road  for  the  summer.  A  great  many  of 
the  chorus  people  were  discharged,  to  save  expense,  but 
to  our  frantic  joy,  Julia  and  Kitty  and  I  were  kept  on. 

Mrs.  F told  us  that  we  must  thank  her  for  this,  but 

Julia  said  it  was  "  no  such  thing."  We  were  wanted  by 
the  management ;  and  anyhow,  there  would  have  been 

no  reason  for  gratitude.  Mrs.  F took  a  commission 

off  our  salary.  Also  she  would  put  two  other  girls  from 
the  country  in  our  places,  but  not  three,  because  Fifi 
clamored  to  have  a  whole  bed  to  herself  in  future. 


To   M.  L.  G.  133 

The  morning  we  learned  that  we  were  to  go,  we  joined 
hands  and  danced  round  the  room,  without  any  clothes 
on,  like  young  Bacchantes,  our  long  hair  whirling  round 
our  naked  shoulders. 

We  played  nowhere  less  than  a  week  when  on  tour, 
and  were  a  fortnight  in  some  towns.  We  three  herded 
together  in  one  room  at  hotels,  and  I  was  so  happy  that 
I  laughed  all  day.  I  began  to  grow,  very  fast,  and  de- 
cided to  put  up  my  hair,  and  have  my  skirts  let  down. 
At  a  town  in  the  middle  west  I  asked  our  landlady  to 
find  a  cheap  dressmaker  who  could  make  me  some  new 
frocks ;  and  a  Miss  Plum  came  to  sew  for  me,  sitting  to 
work  in  our  bedroom.  She  was  only  eighteen,  but  so 
plain  that  I  knew  she  could  never  have  fun  in  her  life,  as 
Julia  and  Kitty  and  I  had.  Miss  Plum's  face  was  yellow 
and  covered  with  pimples;  but  I  felt  such  a  passionate  pity 
for  her,  that  when  she  had  finished  my  work  and  was 
going  away,  I  resolved  to  kiss  her  good-bye.  I  hated  to 
do  this,  because  her  complexion  was  disgusting,  and  I 
did  not  really  like  her  at  all.  But  the  kiss  was  to  show 
the  poor  girl  that  I  thought  myself  no  better  than  she, 
and  I  expected  her  to  be  thankful.  It  was  almost  a  re- 
ligious rite.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  shocked. 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  I'd  live  to  be  kissed  by  a  show 
actress  !  "  she  mumbled,  her  unwholesome  face  turning  a 
dark  red. 

This  was  the  first  snub  I  received  on  account  of  the 
profession  I  had  proudly  entered.  I  could  not  under- 
stand, and  I  lay  awake  brooding  over  it  nearly  all  that 
night,  feeling  hurt  and  ashamed.  It  was  some  time  be- 
fore the  wound  healed,  though  I  never  spoke  of  it  to  any 
one.  When  I  thought  of  the  spotted  cheek  which  I  had 


134  To  M.  L.  G. 

screwed  up  courage  to  kiss,  and  saw  again  the  enraged 
look  in  Miss  Plum's  boiled  gooseberry  eyes,  I  shivered,  as 
superstitious  people  shiver  when  some  one  "  walks  over 
their  graves."  It  seems  a  small  thing  now,  and  prepos- 
terously funny;  yet  I  can't  help  feeling  that  it  was  a 
little  pathetic,  remembering  how  miserable  it  made  me 
then. 

Not  that  I  was  unhappy  long.  Almost  everything 
made  me  want  to  sing  for  joy.  The  bare  thought  of  un- 
happiness  for  myself  or  others  was  like  standing  on  the 
edge  of  a  black  pit,  looking  down  into  unimaginable 
depths.  I  was  not  unselfish  in  little  things,  yet  I  used  to 
fancy  that  to  save  any  one  else  from  great  sorrow,  I 
would  gladly  die.  And  to  wake  up  in  the  dark  night 
sometimes,  with  a  voice  murmuring  in  my  ears :  "  All  the 
world  is  full  of  unhappiness;  many  people  are  never 
happy.  Perhaps  you  will  fall  down  into  that  black  pit  of 
despair  when  you're  older,"  was  like  death.  Such  a  voice 
never  spoke  in  the  daytime,  and  if  I  heard  any  echo  of  it 
in  the  sunshine  I  could  easily  say  to  myself,  "  Pooh !  it 
doesn't  matter  what  happens  when  you  are  older ! "  For 
I  was  sure  that  nothing  was  of  the  least  importance  in 
life,  after  thirty ;  and  besides,  it  was  too  bad  to  be  true, 
that  I  could  ever  be  really  unhappy. 

I  enjoyed  every  minute,  except  those  occasional  bad 
moments  in  the  night,  which  seemed  like  presentiments, 
and  they  came  seldom.  I  had  a  queer  impression  that 
the  dark  thoughts  were  the  ghosts  of  dead  bats,  which 
flapped  through  the  window  and  hovered  over  my  head, 
until  my  will  was  strong  enough  to  drive  them  out. 

Rather  strangely,  the  kiss  I  gave  Miss  Plum,  and  the 
snub  I  gotfrom  her  in  return,  left  a  more  lasting  impression 


To   M.  L.  G.  135 

than  anything  else  in  my  first  tour.  It  is  odd  that  I  re- 
member comparatively  few  events ;  and  in  looking  back 
see  only  a  confused  jumble,  with  here  and  there  an 
incident,  like  a  star  that  twinkles  through  a  wild  mass  of 
cloud  rollicking  along  in  the  wind. 

It  is  only  after  we  reached  Chicago  that  I  see  clearly 
again. 

We  arrived  late,  just  in  time  to  eat,  unpack  a  little, 
and  go  to  the  theatre,  not  far  from  the  hotel  where  Julia 
and  Kitty  and  I  had  a  room.  But  next  day,  for  the  first 
time,  I  put  on  one  of  the  long  dresses  which  Miss  Plum 
had  made  two  weeks  before.  I  had  yearned  to  wear  it 
ever  since  it  was  finished,  but  had  not  been  able  to  screw 
up  my  courage,  knowing  that  I  would  be  teased  by  every 
one  in  the  company,  I  being  the  youngest,  and  fair  game 
for  all.  In  thinking  it  over,  I  decided  to  wait  till  Chicago, 
for  everybody  was  looking  forward  to  the  biggest  city  of 
the  tour,  and  would  be  too  busy  to  pay  much  attention 
to  me.  People  would  hardly  notice  the  difference  at  first, 
I  hoped,  and  afterwards,  when  remarks  were  made,  I 
could  say,  "  Why,  I've  been  wearing  this  dress  a  long 
time." 

Julia  and  Kitty  knew  what  was  going  to  happen,  be- 
forehand, but  were  singularly  indifferent.  I  could  not  be- 
lieve that  their  first  long  skirts  had  seemed  as  interesting 
to  them  as  mine  did  to  me. 

Having  settled  on  what  to  do,  I  waked  early,  thinking 
about  the  frock,  and  how  I  would  wear  my  hair  under 
my  best  hat,  which  was  more  grown-up  looking  than  the 
"  sailor "  I  travelled  in.  I  was  ready  to  go  for  a  walk 
while  Julia  and  Kitty  were  still  in  bed,  and  too  sleepy  to 
look  at  me. 


136  To   M.  L.  G. 

My  heart  beat  fast  as  I  stepped  out  into  the  corridor, 
and  I  glanced  around  anxiously,  hoping  none  of  our  peo' 
pie  would  be  there.  I  was  relieved  to  meet  no  one, 
except  a  servant  or  two  of  the  hotel.  They  took  no 
notice  of  me,  and  I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  pleased 
or  disappointed. 

On  the  stair-landing  above  the  first  floor  was  a  huge 
mirror,  reaching  from  the  floor  nearly  to  the  ceiling,  and 
framed  in  faded  red  velvet.  I  saw  myself  in  it,  "  a 
grown-up  young  lady  "  at  last. 

"  Oh,  Lily  Merritt ! "  I  said  involuntarily,  under  my 
breath ;  and  was  surprised  at  myself,  because  it  was  years 
since  I  had  played  with  Lily  Merritt,  the  girl  in  the  glass, 
or  had  even  thought  of  her. 

"  I  believe  you  are  pretty,  Lily  Merritt ! "  I  told  that 
girl ;  and  I  was  suddenly  so  happy  that  I  did  not  care 
who  saw  me,  or  who  tried  to  tease  me  about  my  done-up 
hair,  or  my  dress  which  came  down  to  my  insteps.  I 
was  sure  that  I  looked  nice ;  and  it  was  glorious  to  be 
grown  up  at  fourteen. 

In  the  street,  I  kept  glancing  at  my  reflection  in  the 
shop  windows,  and  when  young  men  stared  at  me,  I  could 
have  danced  with  joy.  At  last,  I  was  no  longer  a  little 
girl.  No  one  could  call  me  "  kid."  I  should  have  as  much 
fun  as  Julia  and  Kitty,  and  "  make  mashes,"  as  they  did. 

To  "  make  a  mash  "  was  to  have  a  boy  or  young  man 
follow  you  away  from  the  stage  entrance,  or  speak  to 
you  in  the  street,  and  sometimes  send  you  candy  or 
flowers,  at  the  theatre.  Julia  and  Kitty  had  a  great  many 
such  adventures,  over  which  they  chuckled  in  our  bed- 
room at  night,  and  perhaps  exaggerated  a  little.  I  had 
never  had  any  yet,  and  envied  the  older  girls. 


To   M.  L.  G.  137 

That  very  day  came  my  turn.  A  young  man  paused 
behind  me  as  I  looked  into  a  shop  window,  and  asked  if 
I  would  let  him  "  buy  me  a  hat  or  something  ?  "  I  said, 
"  No.  Go  away !  "  promptly ;  yet  I  tingled  with  pleasure. 
My  chief  reason  for  wishing  such  a  thing  to  happen  had 
been  that  I  might  report  it  to  Julia  and  Kitty ;  but  after 
all  I  was  ashamed  to  tell  what  the  man  had  said,  for  fear 
they  might  believe  that  I  was  only  "  making  it  up." 

One  night  in  Chicago,  a  very  pretty  girl  whom  we  had 
not  seen  before  came  and  stood  in  the  wings  at  the 
theatre.  She  seemed  much  interested  in  my  scenes,  and 
I  was  flattered,  noticing  that  her  eyes  were  often  on  me. 

She  stood  about  with  H ,  the  stage  manager,  and  they 

talked  together  in  whispers,  though  he  always  scolded  us  if 
we  chattered  in  the  wings. 

Since  leaving  New  York  I  had  had  a  part,  with  two 
lines  to  speak,  having  been  promoted  for  the  "  road."  I 
was  a  boy,  in  tights,  and  though  at  first  it  had  been 
strange  and  not  quite  pleasant  to  show  my  legs,  half  the 
other  girls  in  the  company,  including  Julia,  were  wearing 
the  same  kind  of  costume,  and  I  soon  grew  used  to  it, 
as  I  had  grown  used  to  bathing  before  three  pairs  of 

eyes,  at  Mrs.  F 's.  I  thought  that  Mr.  H 's 

pretty  friend  was  admiring  my  pale  blue  costume,  as  she 
looked  at  it  so  intently  and  often ;  but  that  night  I  re- 
ceived a  message  bidding  me  to  the  stage  manager's 
room ;  and  there  I  was  quickly  undeceived. 

H was  a  youngish  man,  dark  and  small,  with  one 

white  lock  in  his  black  hair.  He  had  a  soft  manner 
when  he  was  not  angry,  but  if  anything  happened  to  upset 
him,  he  raged  about  the  stage,  pulling  as  if  at  a  mous- 
tache, though  his  had  been  shaved  off,  and  sputtering  and 


138  To   M.  L.  G. 

swearing.  Whenever  he  was  excited,  he  stammered 
oddly,  and  this  he  began  to  do  as  I  came  to  the  door.  I 
wondered  if  I  had  done  anything  wrong,  and  was  to  be 
scolded.  But  he  began  to  speak  to  me  kindly,  and  I  was 
so  interested  in  his  queer  stammer,  that  he  had  talked 
for  some  time  before  I  realized  what  he  was  saying. 
Then,  suddenly,  I  understood  that  I  was  not  to  go  on 
any  farther  with  the  company. 

H explained  that  an  understudy  for  several  of  the 

principal  characters  was  wanted,  and  I  was  too  young  to 
be  trusted  for  such  work.  Expenses  had  to  be  kept 
down,  and  the  management  did  not  wish  to  carry  an 
extra  person.  Now,  a  girl  could  be  got  who  would  play 
my  part,  and  do  the  understudying  as  well,  for  the  same 
money.  Legally,  I  could  not  complain  if  I  were  given 
two  weeks'  notice,  or  the  equivalent  salary ;  but  for  Mrs. 

F 's  sake,  and  my  own,  the  management  would  do 

better  than  that  for  me.  A  "  society  girl  "  was  just  going 
out  as  a  star,  with  a  company  in  repertoire,  and  wanted 

an  ingenue  for  several  small  but  good  parts.  H was 

a  friend  of  Miss  L 's  business  manager,  and  had 

"  fixed  it  up  "  with  him  for  me,  provided  I  were  approved 
by  the  star. 

"  But  there's  n-n-nothing  in  that,"  he  assured  me. 
"  Sh-she'll  like  you  all  r-right."  And  he  went  on  to  say 
that  he  had  made  an  appointment  for  me  to  call  on  Miss 
L the  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock. 

When  he  was  embarrassed,  not  only  did  he  stutter,  but 
brought  in  the  word  "  around,"  over  and  over  again,  in  a 
curious  and  senseless  way,  which  was  like  a  kind  of  mad- 
ness. 

"  You're    mighty  1-lucky,    and  —  and  —  a-round,"  he 


To   M.  L.  G.  139 

said,  "  to  g-get  such  a  chance  at  y-your  age,  and 
around.  You  might  have  g-gone  on  for  years,  and 
around,  w-without  s-six  1-lines  to  s-speak.  N-now,  when 

you  g-get  back  to  New  York,  and  a-round,  Mrs.  F 

can  m-maybe  fit  you  out  w-with  a  bang  up  part  in  a  first- 
r-rate  theatre,  right  away,  and  —  and  around." 

The  news  that  I  was  not  to  go  on  with  the  company 
was  a  heavy  blow.  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  the  tears 
from  my  eyes,  for  I  was  fond  of  Julia  and  Kitty,  and 
liked  everybody.  But  I  had  a  kind  of  stubborn  pride 
which  made  me  feel  that  the  thing  of  most  importance 

was  not  to  let  H see  that  I  cared.  I  thought  of  the 

inevitable  Jenny  Elmore,  and  by  and  by,  as  he  went  on 
painting  my  new  prospects  in  bright  colors,  I  was  a  lit- 
tle comforted.  His  soft,  wheedling  manner  hypnotized 
me  into  believing  that  "  the  management "  was  really 

considering  my  interests.  I  parted  from  H almost 

cheerfully,  and  by  the  time  I  found  Julia  and  Kitty,  I 
was  so  excited  that  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  sad  or 
glad. 

They  gave  each  other  a  long  look,  with  raised  eye- 
brows. 

"  It's  settled  then,  anyhow,"  said  Julia. 

"  We  might  have  known  it  would  be  the  Kid,"  said 
Kitty. 

The  "  Kid  "  was  my  name  in  the  company,  given  me 
by  the  leading  man,  a  fine  actor  who  need  never  have  left 
New  York,  if  he  had  not  loved  champagne  too  well. 

I  begged  the  girls  to  tell  me  what  they  meant.  The 
mystery  was  too  good  to  keep,  though  neither  of  them 
really  wished  to  hurt  my  feelings. 

It  seemed  that  the  pretty  girl  who  had  looked  at  my 


140  To  M.  L.  G. 

scenes  from  the  wings  was  Mr.  H 's  mistress.     He 

had  wanted  her  to  go  out  with  our  company,  but  she  had 
the  offer  of  something  better  than  he  could  secure  for  her. 
She  was  English,  and  had  sung  in  a  London  music  hall ; 
but  for  some  reason  had  failed  to  please  Chicago  au- 
diences in  the  vaudeville  theatre  where  she  had  been  en- 
gaged. Her  story  was  that  the  manager  made  love  to 
her,  and  "  our  people "  had  begun  to  whisper  among 
themselves,  when  they  saw  her  in  the  wings,  that  "  some 
one  would  have  to  go."  Julia  and  Kitty  had  heard  noth- 
ing, until  after  I  had  been  sent  for  by  H .  Then  one 

of  the  other  actresses  staying  in  the  hotel  had  told  them 
who  the  pretty  girl  was,  and  what  was  likely  to  happen. 
Each  was  afraid  that  she  might  be  the  sacrifice.  And  I 
could  see  that,  though  Julia  and  Kitty  liked  me  well 
enough,  their  relief  on  their  own  account  overcame  their 

regret  on  mine.     What  they  told  me  about  H and 

the  English  girl  showed  me  of  how  little  importance  I 
was  to  the  "  management,"  and  this  talk  made  me  feel 
that  it  was  an  enviable  thing  to  be  loved,  on  any  terms, 

by  a  man  in  H 's  position.     I  was  hurt  to  the  heart 

that  they  sympathized  so  slightly  with  me,  and  so  little 
minded  losing  me.  But  I  was  too  proud  to  let  them  see 
this.  I  began  to  pretend  that  I  was  glad  to  go.  And  I 
remembered  things  I  had  heard  Madame  say  about 
women ;  that  they  never  cared  truly  for  each  other.  Not 
that  I  was  a  woman  yet,  but  I  was  beginning  to  think  of 
myself  as  one.  The  emotional  side  of  me  was  develop- 
ing, and  I  was  glad  to  realize  it.  I  told  myself  that  I 
hated  the  English  girl,  and  imagined  a  tragic  scene  be- 
tween us,  in  which  I  dominated  her,  as  Queen  Mary  dom- 
inates Queen  Elizabeth  in  the  play  of  "  Mary  Stuart."  I 


To   M.  L.  G.  141 

made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  say  something  terrible  to 
the  girl  on  the  stage  that  night,  if  she  came  to  watch  me 
again  in  the  wings  ;  that  perhaps  we  would  strike  each 
other,  while  every  one  looked  on  and  tried  to  separate  us ; 
that  she  would  cower  before  me ;  and  the  nice  leading 
man,  who  had  named  me  "  the  Kid,"  would  say,  "  There's 
the  making  of  a  great  actress  in  that  child  !  It's  a  shame 

she  should  get  the  chuck  for  a  d d  foreigner."  I 

knew,  of  course,  if  he  applied  any  adjective,  it  would  be 

"  d d,"  as  that  was  the  stock  expression.  It  was  too 

much  trouble  to  invent  anything  fresh. 

Just  as  I  had  expected,  the  new  girl  did  come  into  the 
wings,  at  the  same  time  as  the  night  before.  But  she 
looked  so  pretty  and  pleasant  that  I  could  not  hate  her 
after  all.  When  my  scene  was  over  she  was  alone. 

H was  not  with  her.  This  was  my  opportunity,  and 

I  was  ashamed  of  myself  because  I  had  no  wish  to  seize 
it.  I  thought  that  I  must  be  weak,  and  perhaps  even 
cowardly,  not  to  feel  angry  when  I  saw  the  girl. 

My  heart  seemed  to  grow  very  big  in  my  breast  when 
she  followed  me  and  spoke  my  name.  I  turned  on  her 
brusquely,  but  her  gentle  eyes  and  lovely  smile  disarmed 
me,  in  spite  of  myself.  She  said  that  she  felt  dreadfully 
at  hearing  I  was  leaving  on  account  of  her.  She  had 

supposed,  from  what  Mr.  H said,  that  there  was 

room  for  her  as  understudy,  without  any  one  having  to 
go.  Now,  she  supposed,  it  was  too  late  to  change,  but 
would  I  please  to  believe  that  it  wasn't  her  fault  ? 

She  was  quite  a  common  girl,  with  a  Cockney  accent. 
She  called  herself  "  Mye  "  instead  of  "  May,"  and  said 
"  stige  "  for  "  stage  " ;  yet  her  tones  were  sweet  and  flute- 
like.  I  had  never  met  an  Englishwoman  before,  and, 


142  To   M.  L.  G. 

after  the  nasal  voices  I  heard  all  around  me  in  the  com- 
pany, hers  seemed  sweet  as  I  imagined  a  nightingale's  to 
be.  I  did  not  know  that  her  accent  was  bad,  and,  as  I 
reluctantly  softened  towards  Miss  Tooley,  I  secretly  re- 
solved to  imitate  her  soft  way  of  talking.  That  same 
night  I  began  to  practice  what  I  called  a  "  creamy  voice," 
with  long  "  a's  "  and  less  roll  of  the  "  r's  "  than  I  had. 

Forgiving  the  English  girl,  and  admiring  her  manner 
of  speaking,  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good.  I  felt  soothed, 
as  one  feels  after  taking  some  quieting  medicine  to  cure 
a  headache. 

As  my  anger  died,  a  little  of  my  first  excitement  and 
pleasure  in  the  thought  of  a  real  part  came  back.  The 
next  morning  I  was  almost  happy  again,  and  in  a  good 
mood  to  go  and  call  upon  Miss  L . 


CHAPTER  XII 

said  that  Miss  L was  a  "  society  ama- 
teur," and  I  expected  to  see  her  in  a  beautiful 
home  of  her  own,  with  an  adoring  father  and 
mother.  I  imagined  that  her  parents  were  rich,  and  had 
provided  the  money  to  put  her  on  the  stage  as  a  star. 
The  picture  I  painted  in  my  mind  was  magnificent,  and 
I  was  disappointed  to  find  that  the  star  lived  in  a  private 
hotel  or  boarding-house.  But  it  was  a  very  different 
boarding-house  from  any  I  had  known.  The  hall  had  an 
imitation  oak  wainscoting,  and  red  paper  on  the  walls, 
nearly  covered  with  blue  china  plates.  A  man  servant, 
with  a  white  necktie  and  black  tail-coat,  opened  the  door 
for  me,  and  I  was  ushered  into  a  large  public  sitting- 
room  to  wait  while  my  name  was  sent  to  Miss  L . 

In  a  few  minutes  the  man  came  back.     "  Miss  L 

will  see  you  in  her  private  parlor,"  he  said.  I  was  glad 
that  I  had  put  on  my  prettiest  dress  and  hat. 

"  Front  room,  next  floor,  right  hand  side,"  the  servant 
directed  me,  as  I  went  up-stairs  alone.  My  heart  beat 
fast  as  I  knocked  at  the  door.  "  Come  in,"  a  woman's 
voice  called.  I  thought  it  sounded  sweet  and  young, 

and  hoped  it  was   Miss   L 's.     The  door-knob  was 

hard  to  turn,  and  I  fumbled  at  it  vainly.  Then  I  felt  it 
being  sharply  twisted  the  opposite  way,  and  the  door 
sprang  open.  It  was  a  small,  nervous-looking  man  who 
had  come  to  my  help.  He  had  indeterminate  features, 
which  might  have  been  modelled  of  putty,  and  thick- 


144  To  M-  L-  G- 

lidded  eyes  that  blinked  constantly,  as  if  an  eyelash  had 
been  caught  in.  A  lock  of  brown  hair  hung  straight 
over  his  forehead,  and  catching  sight  of  it,  he  would 
squint  and  push  it  aside  hastily.  But  immediately  it  fell 
back  again. 

Another  man  was  lounging  in  a  large  easy  chair.  He 
stared  at  me,  but  did  not  move,  as  I  came  in.  This  did 
not  surprise  me,  for  the  men  I  knew  never  got  up  as  a 
sign  of  politeness  to  women. 

I  took  an  instant  dislike  to  this  second  man.  He  was 
big  and  loose-limbed,  with  beautiful  hands,  of  which  he 
seemed  to  be  proud,  for  he  had  them  spread  out  on  the 
arms  of  the  red  plush  chair,  and  gazed  at  them  with  in- 
terest. They  had  filbert-shaped  nails,  which  were  bright 
pink  and  brilliantly  manicured.  He  might  have  been 
about  forty-five,  and  the  muscles  of  his  chin  had  begun  to 
drop.  His  light  hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  had  receded 
a  little  from  his  high  forehead.  His  nose  was  a  beak,  and 
his  mouth  small  and  mean.  If  a  girl  had  such  blue  eyes 
and  red  and  white  complexion  they  would  be  admired, 
but  his  seemed  disgusting  to  me.  He  was  well-dressed, 
much  better  than  the  little  man,  and  appeared  satisfied 
with  everything  about  himself. 

I  saw  the  two  men  first,  because  Miss  L was  at  a 

distant  part  of  the  room,  and  had  her  back  half  turned  to 
me,  as  she  searched  a  pile  of  manuscripts  on  a  table.  As 
I  entered,  she  found  what  she  wanted,  and  came  forward. 
At  once  I  felt  as  if  I  should  love  to  do  anything  she 
might  ask  me  to  do. 

There  was  about  her  a  vague  resemblance  to  my  dear 
lady  of  California,  whose  face  and  teachings  I  had  never 
forgotten.  Exactly  where  lay  the  likeness  I  could  not 


To   M.  L.  G.  145 

have  told,  but  I  think  now  it  could  have  existed  only  in 
expression,  and  the  manner  of  wearing  the  hair.  Be- 
sides, my  dear  friend  had  been  a  lady  in  breeding  and 

Miss  L was  a  lady  too.  I  had  not  met  many  ladies  ; 

hardly  any,  indeed,  except  these. 

After  association  with  the  girls  and  young  women  of 

our  travelling  company,  Miss  L 's  way  of  doing  her 

hair,  and  her  simply-made  dress,  struck  me  as  almost 
Quakerish.  She  had  golden-brown  hair,  not  dyed  or 
bleached,  which  waved  naturally,  and  broke  into  little 
rings  on  her  forehead.  It  was  drawn  back  into  a  knot  at 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  as  my  dear  lady  had  worn  hers. 
She  was  pale,  without  any  powder  that  showed.  Her 
nose  was  finely  chiselled  and  very  delicate ;  her  mouth 
sensitive,  and  rather  large.  When  she  smiled,  her  eyes, 
though  not  remarkable  for  shape  or  size,  were  like  blue- 
gray  stars.  To  me,  with  her  graceful  manner  and  dainty 
air,  she  was  an  ideal  of  romance  come  alive.  I  wondered 
how  old  she  was,  and  fancied  that  she  must  be  about 
twenty-six.  If  I  were  in  her  place,  I  thought  that  I 
should  beam  with  pride  and  joy  at  being  a  star  in  a  com- 
pany of  my  own.  But  though  Miss  L 's  smile  turned 

her  gray  'eyes  to  shining  jewels,  when  her  face  was  in 
respose  it  fell  into  tired  lines.  She  said  "  Good-morning  " 
to  me,  and  asked  a  few  questions  in  a  sweet  voice,  but  it 
did  not  sound  gay  or  vital,  as  a  woman's  voice  should 
when  all  her  ambitions  are  granted. 

She  introduced  me  to  the  two  gentlemen,  and  told  me 

that  Mr.  S (the  little  man)  was  the  author  of  a  play 

she  was  taking  out,  the  only  modern  one  of  her  reper- 
toire. It  was  founded  on  a  novel  of  Chicago  life  which 
he  had  written,  for  he  was  a  Chicago  journalist,  and  his 


146  To   M.  L.  G. 

book  had  been  a  success.  I  had  never  heard  of  it,  but 
that  was  not  strange,  because  the  only  novels  I  read  were 
trashy  stories  in  cheap  editions,  bought  in  the  train,  or 
borrowed  from  other  girls  in  the  company.  I  hardly 
knew  that  better  novels  existed,  except  those  of  Dickens, 
which  I  had  read  with  Miss  Minnie. 

The  big  man  was  Mr.  W ,  and  occasionally  Miss 

L called  him  "  Harry,"  hesitating  as  she  spoke  the 

name,  as  if  she  could  not  accustom  herself  to  using  it. 
What  he  was  to  her,  or  the  company,  I  could  not  make 
out,  but  she  appealed  to  him  often,  and  apparently  his 
opinion  was  of  more  importance  than  that  of  the  author. 

She  turned  to  Mr.  W when  the  smallest  thing  had 

to  be  decided,  and  there  was  a  pretty  deference  in  her 
manner,  like  timidity  disguising  itself  under  spright- 
liness. 

I  thought  that  he  saw  and  enjoyed  her  anxiety  to  please 
him,  but  he  took  no  trouble  in  return.  Sprawling  at  ease 
in  the  big  chair,  he  was  like  a  well-fed  lion  watching  a 
white  gazelle ;  not  wishing  to  eat  it,  but  amused  at  its 

fear  of  being  eaten.  If  Miss  L had  not  called  him 

"  Harry,"  I  should  have  guessed  him  to  be  a  rich  uncle, 
of  whose  criticism  she  was  afraid.  When  she  said  to  him 
that  it  seemed  as  if  I  might  do  very  nicely  in  the  part  of 
Susie,  he  replied  indifferently,  "  One  amateur  more  among 
many,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

Miss  L blushed  so  violently  that  tears  came  to  her 

eyes.  But  she  smiled,  and  answered  that,  at  least,  ama- 
teurs were  enthusiastic  and  anxious  to  do  well. 

It  was  already  arranged  for  me,  by  our  stage-manager, 

that  if  Miss  L decided  to  engage  me,  I  should  have 

the  same  salary  I  had  been  earning  in  the  old  company. 


To   M.  L.  G.  147 

It  was  very  small,  and  I  should  have  two  new  dresses  to 
buy,  but  I  did  not  worry.  I  was  sure  that  I  could  man- 
age somehow,  and  already  I  had  a  feeling  of  loyalty 

towards  Miss  L .  She  apologized  for  not  offering 

more  money,  explaining  that  this  was  her  first  experiment 
as  a  star.  Her  business-manager  had  luckily  secured 
dates  allotted  to  a  favorite  actress,  whose  tour  had  to  be 
cancelled  on  account  of  illness. 

As  she  talked,  other  members  of  the  company  began 
to  arrive.  They  had  rehearsed  several  times,  but  the 
ingenue  newly  engaged  to  play  Susie  had  been  released 
to  join  a  larger  company.  Because  she  had  left  at  a 
day's  notice,  the  part  was  open  for  me,  and  something 

told  me  that  H 's  friend  was  the  girl  in  question. 

Afterwards  I  learned  that  this  guess  was  right. 

The  rehearsals  were  being  held  in  Miss  L 's  sitting- 
room,  until  a  theatre  should  be  free.  I  gathered  this 
fact  from  the  stage-manager,  who  was  the  first  to  come, 

and  who  talked  a  good  deal  to  Mr.  W and  the  author, 

while  Miss  L greeted  the  assembling  company  po- 
litely, as  if  each  person  were  her  guest.  This,  I  felt  in- 
stinctively, was  the  mark  and  manner  of  an  amateur. 

All  the  others  were  amateurs,  or  new  recruits  to  the 

profession,  except  Herman  C ,  the  stage-manager  and 

"  heavy  man."  Each  mannerism  and  gesture  of  his  be- 
spoke the  actor,  sure  of  himself  and  his  superiority  to  the 
rest.  He  was  not  more  than  thirty,  but  no  one  else  ap- 
peared to  be  over  twenty-six,  and  he  was  easily  the  mas- 
ter, by  reason  of  his  experience  and  personality.  He 
gave  somewhat  the  same  impression  of  dominating  force 

that  Mrs.  F gave,  although  he  was  a  handsome 

young  man,  and  she  was  a  middle-aged  mountain  of 


148  To   M.  L.  G. 

womanhood.  Herman  C was  six  feet  tall,  broad- 
shouldered,  very  fair,  but  strong-looking,  though  rather 
too  stout  for  his  age,  cold-eyed,  with  cruel  nostrils,  and 
jaws  of  iron.  It  was  interesting  to  see  how  every  other 
member  of  the  company  looked  up  to  him  and  admired 

him,  even  the  leading  man,  Cyril  R ,  who  was  taller, 

and  ten  times  handsomer  than  Herman  C . 

Indeed,  Cyril  R was  the  handsomest  man  I  had 

ever  seen.  He  was  like  a  great,  beautiful  girl  who  had 
cropped  her  dark  curls  short,  and  disguised  herself  as  a 
man.  His  features  were  perfect  as  those  of  a  statue ;  his 
curved  eyelashes  were  half  an  inch  long,  and  he  had  a 
trick  of  flickering  them  as  a  flirtatious  girl  does.  Though 
his  hair,  his  brows  and  lashes  were  almost  black,  his  skin 
was  marble  fair,  and  showed  no  shadow  of  beard  on  its 
clear  whiteness.  He  was  not  quite  an  amateur,  for  he 
had  played  small  parts  during  one  season,  with  a  Shake- 
spearean star ;  but  evidently  he  looked  up  with  reverence 
to  Herman  C . 

The  two  other  young  men,  almost  boys,  and  the  three 
girls  were  members  of  a  Chicago  school  of  acting,  and 
this  engagement  would  be  their  first  professional  experi- 
ence. They  were  nice-looking  and  well-mannered  ;  well 
dressed,  too.  I  realized  in  a  few  minutes  that  all  were 

of  a  different  world  from  mine,  except  Herman  C . 

Disliking  him,  I  nevertheless  felt  that  he  was  nearer  to 
me  than  any  of  the  others. 

I  was  the  youngest,  yet  my  stage  experience  made  me 
feel  older  than  the  three  girls  who  chattered  and  laughed 
like  school  children.  They  knew  each  other  well,  they 
and  the  two  youths,  for  they  had  played  together  as  the 
pupils  of  an  old  actor  who  had  given  up  the  stage  to  be 


To   M.  L.  G.  149 

a  teacher.  Their  clothes  were  neat  and  plain ;  the  girls 
wore  small  hats  and  tailor  frocks.  Instinctively  I  knew 
that  they  had  been  brought  up  by  fathers  and  mothers 
who  loved  them,  in  comfortable  homes.  Compared  with 
these  girls,  who  were  between  eighteen  and  twenty,  I  felt 
myself  to  be  meretricious  and  "  actressy."  My  idea  of 
what  was  desirable  to  wear  suddenly  changed,  for  it  had 
been  founded  on  the  taste  of  Julia  and  Kitty,  my  only 
friends.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  in  future  I  would 
wear  small  hats,  and  not  bunch  out  my  hair  so  much  at 
the  sides.  I  felt  ill  at  ease,  and  anxious  lest  those  well- 
brought-up  young  people  might  despise,  and  join  together 
against  me,  because  I  was  not  what  they  would  con- 
sider a  lady ;  but  to  my  great  relief  they  were  gracious. 
I  began  to  understand  that  they  respected  me  because  I 
was  already  on  the  stage,  just  as  they  respected  Herman 
C for  his  experience. 

All  the  others  were  well  up  in  their  parts.  I  had  to 
read  mine,  but  I  put  my  soul  into  it,  for  I  wanted  to 

please  Miss  L ,  and  show  the  big,  sprawling  "  Harry" 

that,  if  I  were  only  "  one  more  amateur  among  many,"  I 
had  some  idea  of  acting.  At  the  end  of  the  rehearsal, 

Miss  L said  that  I  had  done  excellently,  better  than 

the  girl  who  was  to  have  been  Susie.  Her  words  made 
my  heart  beat  with  joy ;  yet  I  was  not  entirely  happy. 
I  felt  instinctively  that  the  play  would  not  be  a  success ; 
and  I  had  a  conviction  that  Miss  L felt  this  too. 

We  opened  in  Chicago,  and  had  poor  notices.  The 
papers  said  that  Miss  L was  amateurish  and  monot- 
onous, that  S 's  play  was  dull  and  the  company 

"  slight-waisted."  Everybody  tried  to  pretend  that  criti- 
cisms did  not  matter,  yet  all  were  depressed  and  nervous 


150  To  M.  L.  G. 

about  their  own  acting,  except,  of  course,  Herman  C . 

His  part,  that  of  the  villain,  had  not  attracted  much 
attention  from  the  critics,  but  at  least  he  was  not  abused. 
Strange  to  say,  "  Susie  "  pleased  them,  and  I  had  several 
lines  of  praise  in  most  of  the  papers.  Miss  L gen- 
erously congratulated  me,  though  she  looked  sadder  and 

more  anxious  than  before ;  but  Herman  C said  that 

Chicago  newspaper  men  were  fools. 

Neither  the  author  of  the  play  nor  "  Harry  "  travelled 
with   us,  when  we   started  for  our  tour  in  the  West. 

Harry  saw  Miss  L off,  however,  and  they  had  a  long, 

whispered  conversation  in  the  train.  As  soon  as  he  was 
gone,  and  we  had  begun  to  move  out  of  the  big  railway 

station,  Cyril  R went  and  sat  by  Miss  L ,  in  the 

compartment  which  she  was  to  have  all  to  herself. 
Mine,  which  I  shared  with  a  girl  named  Katherine 

K ,  was  near  the  star's.     Inadvertently,  I  glanced  up 

from  a  book  I  was  reading,  and  saw  Miss  L and 

Cyril  gazing  at  each  other.  A  curious  thrill  ran 
through  me.  I  had  never  seen  such  a  look  in  human 
eyes  as  in  theirs,  which  seemed  drowning  in  each  other's 
light. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THERE  can  never  have  been  a  more  emotional 
company  than  ours.  From  the  first,  the  sense 
of  failure  hung  over  us  like  a  cloud,  yet  the 
rumor  had  gone  round  that  there  was  plenty  of  money, 
and  that  no  matter  what  bad  business  we  did,  the  tour 
would  not  be  stopped. 

Harry  was  the  "  angel,"  or  backer.  That  secret,  if  it 
were  a  secret,  was  told  me  before  the  opening  night,  by 

Charlie  M ,  who  played  Susie's  lover.  Harry  was 

supposed  to  be  an  old  friend  of  Miss  J^ 's  people, 

who  were  apparently  all  dead.  And  Charlie  said  that  as 
our  "angel"  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Chicago, 
everything  ought  to  be  "  all  right  for  us,"  whatever  hap- 
pened. But  as  the  tour  went  on,  there  began  to  be 
whisperings.  The  company  feared  that  just  the  one 
thing  had  happened  which  might  prevent  everything  else 
from  being  "  all  right." 

One  evening  I  heard  Herman  talking  to  Cyril  in  the 
wings,  during  a  wait  they  had  together.  "  You're  a 

d d  fool,"  he  said,  in  his  low,  vibrating  voice.  "  The 

old  man's  sure  to  find  out." 

"  How  will  he  find  out  ?  "  asked  Cyril.  "  Who  is  there 
would  tell  him  ?  " 

Herman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

It  would  have  been  charming  to  see  how  those  two  — 
the  star,  and  her  handsome  stage  lover  —  worshipped 
each  other,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  cloud  of  unnamed 


152  To   M.  L.  G. 

fear  brooding  over  us.  But  the  cloud,  as  if  it  were  elec- 
trical, seemed  to  influence  our  emotional  natures.  We 
were  palpitating  with  one  passion  or  another.  Not  one 
of  us  had  a  tranquil  hour. 

I  worshipped  Miss  L ,  who  made  a  pet  of  me,  and 

asked  me  to  call  her  Alma.  If  I  had  not  adored  her,  I 
should  have  been  in  love  with  Cyril,  who  was  so  beauti- 
ful to  look  at,  that  I  could  hardly  keep  my  eyes  off  him. 
I  was  fond  of  drawing,  though  I  had  never  had  lessons, 
and  I  could  catch  a  likeness  easily.  I  bought  a  little  book, 

and  nearly  rilled  it  with  sketches  of  Cyril  R .  When 

I  had  not  the  book  with  me,  half  unconsciously  I  drew 
his  profile  in  the  air  with  one  finger.  That  was  the  be- 
ginning of  the  habit  which  amused  you,  when  you  first 
knew  me.  I  remember  how  you  asked  me  what  I 
was  doing  with  my  moving  finger,  and  whether  I  was 
writing  in  the  air.  I  was  drawing  your  profile.  I  wish 
yours  had  been  the  first  I  drew !  But  ever  since  my  love 

of  beauty  bewitched  me  with  Cyril  R 's  features,  I 

have  always  caught  myself  drawing  in  the  air  profiles  of 
interesting  faces.  I  seem  to  feel  with  my  finger  that  the 
likeness  is  perfect ;  but  faces  I  don't  care  for,  or  dislike, 
have  no  distinct  features  for  my  eyes.  I  cannot  hold 
them  in  my  memory  even  long  enough  to  sketch  them  in 
the  air. 

I  enjoyed  cultivating  a  romantic  regret,  because  I  had 
no  right  to  love  Cyril.  He  belonged  to  Alma,  and  it 
would  have  been  disloyal  to  want  him  for  myself.  But 
between  worship  of  her  and  admiration  of  him,  which 
touched  pain,  my  emotions  were  played  upon  like  the 
strings  of  an  ^olian  harp  by  contrary  winds.  One  of  the 
other  girls  was  desperately  in  love  with  Cyril.  Another 


To   M.  L.  G.  153 

humbly  loved  Herman,  who  —  had  he  cared  for  any  one 
but  himself — would  have  liked  to  attract  Alma,  if  only 
for  vanity's  sake.  Even  I  could  see  that,  as  perhaps  my 
bent  for  acting  made  me  very  observant.  I  could  not 
help  watching  people,  and  speculating  about  their  mo- 
tives and  actions,  just  as  I  could  not  help  mimicking  them 
if  they  were  peculiar,  or  sketching  them  if  they  were  in- 
teresting. 

Charlie  had  fallen  in  love  with  me,  and  I  took  a  wicked 
pleasure  in  torturing  him,  because  he  was  my  first  victim, 
and  because  he  was  not  the  beautiful  Cyril,  who  loved 
our  star.  Katherine  loved  Charlie,  and  Charlie  treated 
her  with  an  almost  insulting  indifference.  We  were  all 
playing  at  cross  purposes,  all  morbidly  interested  in  our 
own  feelings.  The  girls,  including  myself,  cried  very 
easily.  Hardly  a  night  passed  that  there  was  not  hys- 
terical sobbing  in  one  or  other  of  the  dressing-rooms. 
Alma  and  Cyril  thought  only  of  each  other.  Their  love 
made  them  radiant,  and  it  was  as  if  they  set  a  tune  to 
which  we  all  danced.  Our  own  affairs  were  so  absorbing 
that  we  thought  comparatively  little  about  our  parts ;  and 
as  we  had  bad  business  everywhere,  our  acting  seemed 
hardly  to  matter.  It  was  as  if  we  were  travelling  for  our 
own  amusement,  not  to  produce  plays. 

When  we  had  been  touring  for  a  month,  Alma  began 
to  have  strange  nervous  attacks.  She  started  at  every 
sudden  sound,  and  fainted  sometimes  between  acts  at  the 
theatre.  Whether  she  received  disturbing  letters,  or 
whether  she  worried  over  the  poor  "  business/'  no  one 
knew,  but  her  anxiety  was  contagious.  The  atmosphere 
was  electrical.  We  expected  something  to  happen.  She 
and  Cyril  were  more  devoted  to  each  other  than  ever. 


154  To  M.  L.  G. 

They  came  to  the  theatre  together,  and  went  home  to- 
gether. Herman  had  the  manners  of  a  sulky  bear.  He 
and  Cyril  hardly  spoke  to  each  other,  though  they  had 
started  with  an  intimacy  at  first. 

One  night,  in  a  large  town  as  far  west  as  the  Rockies, 

Mr.  VV walked  into  the  theatre.  We  knew  that 

Alma  had  not  been  warned  of  his  coming,  for,  seeing 
him  in  the  wings,  she  fainted  on  the  stage,  and  the  cur- 
tain was  hastily  rung  down.  It  was  he  who  picked  her 
up  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to  her  dressing-room,  and  shut 
the  door. 

I  would  have  thought  that  nothing  could  keep  Cyril 
from  her ;  but  after  all,  Herman's  hand  on  his  arm  was 
enough  to  hold  him  back.  And  with  that  magnetic 
grasp  all  Herman's  old  influence  on  him  seemed  to  return. 
We  could  hear  Harry's  voice,  loud  and  harsh,  behind  the 
thin  door,  when  Alma  had  come  to  herself.  We  could 
hear  her  sobbing  and  wailing,  but  Cyril  stayed  in  his  own 
dressing-room,  which  he  shared  with  Herman. 

The  curtain  was  kept  down  a  long  time,  until  boys 
began  to  stamp  and  whistle,  out  in  front.  Then  Herman 
rang  up,  Cyril  by  his  side,  ready  to  go  on,  his  beautiful 
face  looking  frozen.  I  had  a  scene  to  go  through  with 
him.  He  played  it  without  a  mistake,  his  eyes  travelling 
sometimes,  as  if  fascinated,  to  Herman,  who  watched  him 
from  the  wings.  Then  it  was  time  for  me  to  give  Alma 
her  cue  to  come  on.  I  could  see  that  she  was  not  in  her 
entrance,  and  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Slowly  I  spoke 
the  words  which  should  have  brought  her  on  the  stage ; 
still  she  did  not  appear. 

I  had  not  much  experience,  but  I  knew  enough  to  say 
something  —  anything  that  came  into  my  head,  rather 


To  M.  L.  G.  1 55 

than  be  silent.  Cyril  played  up  to  me,  and  we  "  faked  " 
(as  actors  call  it)  for  a  few  minutes,  wildly,  he  looking 
strange  and  dazed,  yet  somehow  dogged.  Then  I  saw 
Alma  hurrying  towards  her  entrance.  She  walked  un- 
steadily, as  men  walk  when  they  are  drunk. 

I  gave  her  the  cue,  and  was  half  afraid  she  would  not 
take  it  up,  but  she  did,  quickly  enough.  Her  voice 
sounded  old,  yet  she  forgot  none  of  her  lines.  When 
she  had  to  speak  to  Cyril,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  in 
appeal  or  despair,  but  he  lowered  his  long  eyelashes  in 
the  girlish  way  he  had,  and  would  not  return  her  look. 

Their  great  love  scene  (always  so  impassioned  that 
romantic  girls  in  the  audience  applauded  it  invariably) 
went  for  nothing  that  night.  Not  one  pair  of  hands  was 
clapped.  I,  supposed  to  be  asleep  in  a  conservatory, 
peeped  between  half-shut  lids  at  the  auditorium,  and 

saw  W in  a  box.  The  theatre  was  half  empty  and 

full  of  echoing  noises.  I  thought  anxiously  of  his  money, 
and  how  it  was  being  poured  out,  with  little  return. 

While  I  was  dressing  to  go  home,  at  the  end  of  the 
play,  a  note  was  brought  me  by  the  call-boy.  It  was 
from  Alma,  scribbled  in  pencil  on  a  torn  bit  of  pro- 
gramme. She  wrote :  "  Be  in  my  room  to-night,  and 
in  bed,  when  I  get  back.  I'll  give  you  time  to  undress. 
Will  explain  afterwards."  Her  key  was  wrapped  in  the 
paper. 

We  were  all  stopping  in  the  same  hotel,  but  Alma 
had  one  of  the  best  rooms.  Mine  was  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  and  very  small  and  hot.  I  had  Katherine  for  a 
roommate,  but  lately  she  never  spoke  to  me  if  she  could 
help  it,  on  account  of  Charlie. 

Katherine  was  not  on  in  the  last  act,  so  when  I  flew 


156  To   M.  L.  G. 

in  to  get  my  nightgown  and  tooth-brush,  she  had  begun 
to  undress.  Before  I  was  ready  to  go,  the  other  girls 
came,  and  tried  to  make  me  tell  them  what  Alma  had 
written,  for  they  all  seemed  to  know  about  the  note. 
But  I  would  not  answer.  I  hurried  away,  leaving  the 
three  to  talk  over  the  situation.  They  looked  eager, 
like  hungry  young  birds  who  have  been  given  a  choice 
morsel  of  food  to  divide. 

I  was  in  Alma's  bed,  when  she  opened  the  door  and 
switched  on  the  light.  Hearing  Harry's  voice,  I  pre- 
tended to  be  fast  asleep. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  in  the  odd-sounding  voice,  which 
was  not  like  hers.  "  I  told  you  the  truth.  Good-night." 

"  I  see  what  you  want  me  to  see,  and  I've  seen  a  lot 
more  you  don't  want  me  to  see,"  he  growled.  "  You've 
made  your  own  bed,  and  now  you've  got  to  lie  in  it." 

They  were  talking  at  the  door,  and  without  another 
word  the  big  man  walked  away.  Alma  gave  a  little 
gasp,  as  if  she  would  have  called  him  back,  but  it  broke 
off  short,  inarticulately.  She  must  have  stood  looking 
after  him  for  a  minute,  perhaps  expecting  him  to  turn 
back.  When  he  did  not,  she  came  in,  and  softly  shut 
the  door.  As  I  heard  her  locking  it,  I  opened  my  eyes 
wide ;  but  I  was  so  frightened  at  the  look  on  her  face 
that  I  shut  them  again,  lest  it  might  distress  her  to  think 
I  had  seen.  She  supposed  that,  after  all,  I  must  really 
be  asleep,  and  moved  softly,  meaning  not  to  wake  me. 
Then,  as  if  she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  she  came  to  the 
bed,  and  laid  her  hand  on  mine,  which  was  outside  the 
covering.  Hers  was  burning. 

"  For  God's  sake  —  for  God's  sake,"  she  stammered  in 
a  kind  of  moaning  whisper. 


To  M.  L.  G.  157 

I  sat  up  and  wound  my  arms  around  her,  as  she  let 
herself  drop  limply  on  the  bed.  Her  head  fell  on  to  my 
shoulder,  and  as  her  face  pressed  against  my  breast,  I  felt 
my  nightgown  wet  with  her  hot  tears. 

"  What  can  I  do?"  I  asked;  but  she  did  not  answer. 

For  many  moments  she  sobbed,  strangled  sobs,  and 
then,  without  my  having  dared  to  speak  again,  she  began 
to  falter  out  a  broken  story. 

In  this  way  she  told  me  things  which  had  been  the 
common  gossip  of  the  dressing-rooms.  I  think  Herman 

C had  spread  the  scandal.  But  he  knew  only  the 

part  concerning  "  Harry."  I  heard  now,  for  the  first 
time,  how  poor  and  alone  Alma  had  been,  and  that  it 
was  Harry's  suggestion  to  send  her  out  as  a  star  with  a 
company  of  her  own.  It  was  true  that  he  had  known 
her  people.  He  had  lent  her  money  to  pay  for  lessons 
in  the  dramatic  school  where  Charlie  and  the  three  girls 
had  studied.  Alma  was  the  star  pupil,  and  left  soon 
after  the  others  came.  She  had  tried  to  find  an  engage- 
ment and  failed.  Then  Harry  had  offered  to  finance 
her,  as  a  star,  for  a  long  tour.  At  first  she  had  not 
meant  things  to  go  beyond  friendship  between  them,  but 
he  was  stronger  than  she.  By  the  time  the  tour  was 
arranged,  and  the  company  engaged,  he  made  her  see 
that  he  meant  to  have  his  price.  Rather  than  let  every- 
thing fall  through  at  the  last  moment,  and  lose  the 
chance  of  being  near  Cyril,  with  whom  she  had  fallen  in 
love  at  first  sight,  she  had  paid  the  price.  At  first,  she 
was  grateful  to  Harry ;  yet  afterwards  she  felt  nothing 
but  repulsion  for  him.  She  feared  him,  too,  and  knew 
that  she  was  in  danger,  but  was  ready  to  risk  everything 
for  Cyril.  "  I  would  have  given  up  the  whole  thing 


158  To   M.  L.  G. 

before  starting  out,"  she  said,  "  if  that  hadn't  meant 
parting  from  Cyril,  perhaps  forever.  I  think  he  cares  for 
me,  too,  for  even  Herman  can't  make  him  keep  away 
from  me,  though  he  tries." 

I  told  her  that  I  hated  Herman,  and  believed  he  had 
secretly  sent  word  of  what  was  going  on  to  W .  No- 
body else  in  the  company  would  have  been  so  cruel. 
But  Alma  did  not  care  what  Herman  had  done.  She 
cared  only  for  what  he  might  do,  and  forgot  her  fear  of 
Harry,  and  his  threats,  in  her  dread  that  now  Herman 
would  take  Cyril  from  her.  Harry  was  returning  to 
Chicago  at  once.  They  had  had  a  terrible  scene,  and  he 
had  told  her  that  he  would  send  no  more  money.  Alma 
had  nothing  of  her  own,  and  did  not  know  what  would 
become  of  her,  or  any  of  us.  Still,  she  repeated  that  she 
could  bear  anything  if  only  Cyril  would  be  true. 

I  did  my  best  to  comfort  her,  but  I  felt  in  my  heart 
that  everything  was  over.  I  remembered  how  Cyril  had 
looked  down  rather  than  meet  her  eyes,  and  how  coldly 
he  had  played  his  love  scene,  though  she  had  begun  it 
more  passionately  than  ever,  in  spite  of  Harry's  presence. 
I  thought  that  Cyril  was  not  brave  enough,  or  strong 
enough,  to  stand  against  the  rich  financier,  who  could  do 
him  harm  in  his  profession.  Now  that  Herman's  warn- 
ings to  him  had  come  true,  it  seemed  to  me  that  Cyril 
was  chilled  and  cowed  by  the  danger. 

I  saw  no  wrong  in  Alma's  being  the  mistress  of  a  man 
like  Harry.  She  was  the  best  woman  I  had  ever  known, 
since  my  lady  of  California,  and  whatever  she  did  was 
right.  My  idea  was  that  every  girl  who  wanted  to  suc- 
ceed must  get  some  man  to  help  her  up  the  ladder,  unless 
she  had  rich  relations.  It  was  part  of  the  game  of  life, 


To   M.  L.  G.  159 

I  had  learned,  and  my  only  regret  for  Alma  was  that 
her  ladder  seemed  likely  to  be  pulled  down  because  of 
Cyril.  I  began  to  realize  that  he  was  not  worth  the  fall, 
and,  from  half  loving,  I  despised  him.  But  I  dared  not 
say  this  to  Alma.  I  saw  that  it  would  only  make  her 
suffer  more. 

I  wondered  if  "  Mye,"  the  English  girl,  would  fall  in 
love  with  the  leading  man  in  the  old  company,  and  if  she 

did,  what  H would  do  when  he  found  out.  The 

thought  cleared  away  any  resentment  that  I  had  left 
against  "  Mye  " ;  and  whatever  happened,  I  was  glad  to 
be  with  Alma. 

The  next  few  days  were  terrible  for  us  all.  There  was 
not  enough  money  to  take  us  out  of  town,  and  when 
Johnson,  our  business-manager,  telegraphed  in  despera- 
tion to  Harry,  no  answer  came.  There  were  no  salaries, 
and  we  could  not  pay  our  hotel  bills.  The  proprietor 
seized  our  luggage,  and  we  were  unable  to  make  the  long 
"  jump  "  to  the  next  place  where  we  were  due  to  play. 
Then  Johnson,  on  the  pretense  of  going  ahead  to  ar- 
range ways  and  means,  left  us  in  the  lurch,  taking  such 
money  as  he  had,  to  get  back  to  Chicago. 

Alma  ate  nothing,  and  lived  on  a  little  milk.  She 
kept  her  room,  and  would  not  show  herself  outside  the 
door.  Her  face  fell  into  hollows,  and  her  beauty  and 
youth  were  dimmed.  None  of  the  girls  would  come 
near  their  once  adored  star,  whom  they  had  caressed  and 
flattered  in  happier  days.  She  was  in  black  disgrace 
with  the  whole  company,  for  what  they  called  her  "  self- 
ishness." Herman  had  "  warned  her  of  what  would 
happen,  but  she  would  not  let  Cyril  alone  ! "  Nobody 
blamed  Cyril.  It  was  all  Alma's  fault  that  supplies  were 


160  To   M.  L.  G. 

stopped.  One  day  she  sent  me  to  beg  of  Cyril  that  he 
would  come  and  speak  to  her,  if  only  for  a  minute.  I 
went  to  his  door,  but  Herman  was  in  the  room,  and 
sharply  refused  in  Cyril's  name.  Cyril  himself  was  silent. 
«'  Tell  her  it's  impossible,"  Herman  said,  in  his  hard  voice. 
In  his  gray  eyes  there  was  a  light  that  showed  a  cruel 
pleasure. 

"  She  must  write  to  W and  ask  to  be  forgiven," 

he  went  on.  "  She's  treated  W damn  badly.  As 

for  Cyril,  she  tempted  him  through  his  man's  weakness. 
You  can  say  all  this  to  her,  from  me.  And  tell  Miss 

L everything  is  over  between  her  and  Cyril.  Cyril 

doesn't  wish  to  look  at  her  again.  He's  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted with  her,  like  the  rest  of  us.  The  only  thing  she 
can  do,  if  she  doesn't  want  him  to  hate  her,  is  to  help  us 
out  of  the  scrape  she's  got  us  into.  We  look  to  her  to 
do  that." 

I  softened  the  message,  but  I  could  not  change  its 
meaning.  When  Alma  had  heard,  she  sat  quite  still  for 
a  minute.  Then  she  asked  if  Cyril  had  spoken  at  all. 
I  said  no.  Or  if  he  had  looked  at  me  ?  I  had  to  say  no 
to  that  question  too.  Cyril  had  pretended  to  read  a 
book,  which  trembled  in  his  hand,  and  had  let  Herman 
talk  for  him. 

"  Thank  you,  dear/'  Alma  said  suddenly,  in  a  brisk, 
changed  voice.  "  That's  all  I  wanted  to  know.  Now  I've 
some  letters  to  write.  You  can  run  away." 

She  got  up  from  the  bed  on  which  she  had  been  sit- 
ting, and  taking  my  face  between  her  two  stone-cold 
hands,  kissed  me  with  lips  like  ice.  "  Good-bye,  my 
only  little  friend,"  she  whispered,  her  voice  fading  into 
huskiness  again.  She  put  me  gently  out  of  the  room, 


To   M.  L.  G.  161 

and  immediately  after,  as  I  lingered  in  the  corridor,  her 
key  grated  in  the  lock. 

I  was  vaguely  frightened,  and  did  not  like  to  leave  her  ; 
but  when,  after  a  few  minutes'  silence,  I  heard  sounds 
over  the  half-open  transom  as  of  splashing  water,  I  felt 
relieved.  I  thought  that  Alma  must  have  been  crying, 
and  if  she  had  stopped  to  wash  off  the  tears,  she  must  be 
better. 

I  went  to  my  own  room,  but  Katherine  and  the  other 
girls  were  there,  gloomily  talking  over  our  troubles  and 
prospects.  No  one  wanted  to  send  home  for  money. 
The  whole  company  sympathized  with  Herman  in  think- 
ing that  the  star  was  to  blame ;  and  that  it  was  her  duty 
to  save  us.  I  would  not  listen  to  the  hateful  things  the 
girls  said  of  Alma,  and,  after  blurting  out  what  I  thought 
of  their  cruelty,  I  rushed  off  again,  slamming  the  door  to 
annoy  them. 

I  do  not  know  what  drew  me  back  to  Alma.  She  had 
sent  me  away.  I  wanted  to  go  to  her,  but  dared  not. 
Yet  I  could  not  rest  far  from  her.  Something,  about 
which  I  was  almost  superstitious  afterwards,  took  me  to 
her  corridor.  It  was  as  if  a  hand  grasped  my  dress  and 
pulled  me  there.  I  have  no  understanding  of  such  things, 
and  no  formed  theories  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  not  impos- 
sible that  a  thought- current  sent  from  one  mind  may 
have  power  to  draw  another  mind,  already  in  sympathy 
with  it.  You  and  I  spoke  a  little  of  that  subject  once ; 
but  we  did  not  get  very  far.  There  were  so  many  things 
that  cried  to  us  to  talk  of  them,  while  there  was  time. 

I  paused  in  front  of  Alma's  door,  listening.  I  said  to 
myself,  if  I  heard  her  crying  again,  perhaps  I  might  beg 
to  be  let  in  ;  but  there  was  not  a  sound.  Not  the  faint- 


i6i  To  M.  L.  G. 

est  rustling.  Not  a  crackle  of  paper,  as  if  she  were  writ- 
ing the  letters  she  had  told  me  she  meant  to  write.  Not 
a  breath.  Not  the  slight  creak  of  a  loose  board  under  a 
footfall. 

It  seems  to  me  that  there  are  many  different  kinds  of 
silence.  The  silence  out-of-doors  is  full  of  a  million  little 
delicate  sounds,  which  are  like  the  breathing  of  flowers 
and  grass  and  trees,  and  the  talk  of  insects,  or  filmy,  un- 
seen creatures  secretly  visiting  each  other.  Indoors,  an 
ordinary  silence  is  made  up  from  a  patchwork  of  tiny 
noises,  too  ;  a  movement  of  curtains  in  some  faint  breeze, 
wheezings  of  wood,  and  I  do  not  know  what  of  homely 
stirrings.  But,  whether  I  was  supersensitive,  or  whether 
there  were  really  a  telltale  mystery  in  that  silence  which 
seemed  to  steal  out  like  the  fumes  of  incense  from  Alma's 
room,  I  cannot  say.  I  can  tell  you  only  that  it  played 
on  my  nerves  as  a  bow  plays  on  the  strings  of  a  violin. 
I  had  to  knock  and  call  to  Alma,  though  I  knew  she 
might  be  lying  down  asleep,  forgetting  her  troubles. 

There  was  no  answer. 

It  was  cruel  to  wake  her  if  she  rested,  but  I  knocked 
again,  and  then  again,  loudly. 

The  silence  on  the  other  side  was  thick  and  heavy,  like 
a  fall  of  feathers  or  snow.  The  thought  came  to  me  that 
it  would  be  as  still  as  that  in  the  country  of  the  moon. 

I  tried  to  get  in,  but  the  door  was  locked,  as  I  was 
sure  it  would  be.  Suddenly,  a  rage  of  fear  ran  through 
me  from  head  to  feet,  like  fire  bursting  out  from  behind 
a  barrier.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  But  as  I  looked 
around,  I  saw  a  chair  and  a  table  in  the  corridor.  I 
picked  the  table  up,  though  it  was  heavy,  and  set  it  down 
before  Alma's  door.  On  it,  I  put  the  chair. 


To  M.  L.  G.  163 

When  I  had  climbed  up,  I  could  peer  over  the  tran- 
som, which  was  still  half  open,  as  all  our  transoms  were, 
because  of  the  heat. 

Alma's  bed  was  opposite  the  transom.  She  was  lying 
there,  dressed  in  a  white  dress,  which  was  the  only  gown^ 
except  the  one  she  wore  when  I  saw  her  last,  which  the 
landlord  had  left  her  in  taking  away  her  trunks. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  and  delicate  dress,  and  my  first 
thought  was  to  wonder  why  she  had  put  it  on  just  to  lie 
down,  instead  of  slipping  on  a  wrapper.  But  instantly 
a  dreadful  idea  sprang  into  my  mind.  I  seemed  to  feel 
it  flash  in,  as  if  my  brain  had  suddenly  been  lit  up  with 
electricity. 

She  had  pulled  down  the  window  blind,  but  it  was  pale 
gray,  like  the  wall-paper,  and  thin.  The  light  that  came 
into  the  room  was  like  moonlight,  and  Alma,  in  her  white 
dress,  on  the  white  coverlet,  might  have  been  a  figure  cut 
out  in  marble.  Beside  the  bed  was  a  small  table,  with 
two  sealed  letters  on  it ;  nothing  else  except  her  stylo- 
graphic  pen. 

I  cried  out  "  Alma  !  "  once  more ;  yet  she  did  not  stir. 
Then  I  scrambled  down,  and  the  chair  pitched  off  the 
table  with  a  crash.  I  would  not  stop,  but  ran  quickly  to 
Cyril's  door.  In  my  excitement,  I  threw  it  open  without 
knocking.  Cyril  was  not  reading  any  more.  Herman 
was  still  with  him,  and  they  were  playing  some  game  of 
cards.  It  struck  me  as  horrible  that  they  should  be 
amusing  themselves. 

"  You  have  killed  her,"  I  said.     "  She  is  dead." 

They  both  sprang  up,  and  Cyril's  cards  fell  on  the 
floor.  He  stood  staring  at  me,  his  face  blanched  and 
beautiful.  But  Herman's  face  grew  red,  and  his  eyes 


164  To   M.  L.  G. 

were  hard  and  narrow.  "  It  would  be  like  her  beastly 
selfishness  if  she's  gone  and  committed  suicide,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  like  breaking  ice. 

I  could  have  struck  him.  But  there  was  no  time  to 
waste,  and  I  ran  ahead  of  them  both,  to  Alma's  door. 

"  You'll  have  to  burst  it  open,"  I  said.  "  The  key's  in 
the  lock." 

"  If  we  do,  there'll  be  a  hell  of  a  row,"  mumbled  Her- 
man. "  Wait  a  minute.  Let  me  think." 

Cyril  did  not  speak.  A  film  of  tears  covered  his  eyes, 
like  a  crystal  case.  I  think  he  was  afraid  to  let  the  tears 
fall,  because  Herman  would  sneer  at  him. 

We  were  all  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  Herman  asked 
me  if  I  thought  I  were  small  enough  to  crawl  through 
the  transom,  if  he  put  two  chairs  on  the  table,  one  on  top 
of  the  other,  and  steadied  them  well.  If  I  could  do  that, 
and  drop  down  on  the  other  side,  it  would  be  a  good 
thing.  I  could  unlock  the  door,  and  if  Alma  were  not 
dead,  after  all,  we  might  save  a  scandal. 

"  I'm  Cyril's  friend,  and  I  don't  want  any  scandal  for 

his  sake,"  Herman  said.  "  You're  Miss  L 's  friend, 

and  you  don't  want  one,  for  hers." 

I  thought  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  told  him  that  I 
would  try.  I  was  cold  and  trembling,  yet  not  with  fear 
for  myself.  I  felt  sure  that  I  could  get  through  the  tran- 
som ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  finding  Alma  dead. 

Herman  and  Cyril  brought  back  the  table  and  chair  I 
had  climbed  on  before,  and  found  another  chair,  a  very 
light  one,  from  an  empty  room  near  by.  They  wanted 
to  help  me  up,  but  I  hated  them  so  bitterly  that  I  would 
not  let  them  touch  me.  I  shook  off  their  hands,  and 
they  only  steadied  the  chairs  as  I  climbed. 


To   M.  L.  G.  165 

It  was  not  nearly  as  easy  to  get  through  the  transom 
as  I  had  thought  it  would  be,  because  of  the  way  the 
glass  was  swung.  But  the  opening  was  quite  large,  and 
I  was  slim.  I  was  determined  not  to  fail,  and  I  did  what 
I  had  to  do,  somehow.  When  I  hung  on  to  the 
frame,  and  jumped  down  on  to  the  other  side,  I  made 
so  much  noise  that  I  thought  people  would  come  run- 
ning from  down-stairs  to  see  what  had  happened ;  but 
there  was  no  one  in  the  room  underneath,  and  nobody 
came. 

I  knew  that  the  men  outside  expected  me  to  open  the 
door  at  once,  but  I  left  it  locked  when  I  had  picked  my- 
self up  from  the  floor,  and  went  softly  over  to  the  bed. 
I  meant,  if  Alma  were  only  asleep  after  all,  not  to  open 
the  door ;  but  when  I  bent  over  her,  and  saw  how  white 
and  strange  her  face  was,  I  knew  that  she  must  be  dead 
or  dying.  She  looked  calm  and  lovely,  not  as  if  she  had 
suffered ;  but  there  was  a  peculiar  expression  which  I 
cannot  describe,  except  that  it  seemed  to  belong  to  an- 
other world. 

I  tiptoed  back  and  unlocked  the  door.  It  would  have 
seemed  wrong  to  step  heavily. 

Herman  and  Cyril  were  there,  waiting.  They  had  put 
away  the  table  and  chairs,  and  the  instant  the  door  was 
opened  they  came  in  and  closed  it  behind  them.  It  was 
Herman  who  pushed  Cyril  in  and  shut  the  door.  Cyril 
looked  ghastly,  and  would  have  hung  back  if  Herman 
had  not  forced  him  in  ahead  of  him.  But  he  could  not 
make  Cyril  go  to  the  bed.  If  he  had  tried  to  do  that,  I 
think  Cyril  might  have  collapsed.  Herman  would  have 
shaken  Alma  by  the  shoulder,  to  see  whether  she 
breathed,  or  opened  her  eyes,  if  I  had  not  cried,  "  Don't 


166  To   M.  L.  G. 

be  rough  with  her !  If  you  are,  I'll  scream,  and  call  the 
landlord." 

I  suppose  he  was  afraid  of  being  turned  out  of  the 
hotel  and  made  uncomfortable,  in  case  of  new  trouble, 
and  scandal  about  a  suicide. 

He  put  his  head  down  to  her  breast  and  listened.  "  I 
think  she's  alive,"  he  said.  "  She  must  have  taken 
something,  but  there's  no  smell  of  laudanum  or  chloro- 
form." 

"  Chloral,  perhaps,"  Cyril  whispered,  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"  She  had  some,  I  know,  to  use  when  she  couldn't  sleep." 

"  It  doesn't  matter.  We'll  learn  what  it  was,  sooner  or 
later,"  said  Herman.  "  The  first  thing  is  to  get  a  doctor. 
Go  out,  old  man,  and  bring  one.  Don't  ask  in  the  hotel. 
Inquire  outside.  And  hurry." 

No  doubt  Cyril  was  glad  to  go.  He  rushed  away 
without  a  look  at  the  bed. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Herman  pushed  the  electric 
bell.  I,  standing  by  Alma's  bedside,  wondered  what  he 
meant  to  do. 

Soon  a  maid  came,  and  he  asked  for  hot  water  and 

mustard.  Miss  L had  been  taken  ill,  he  said,  and  we 

wanted  to  put  her  feet  in  a  mustard  bath. 

Alma  was  always  very  pleasant  to  servants,  and  the 
girl  made  haste  to  bring  the  things.  There  was  a  great 
tin  can  of  water,  and  a  heaped  cup  of  mustard.  But 
Herman  had  told  the  maid  a  falsehood.  When  she  had 
left  the  room,  he  mixed  cold  water  with  the  hot,  making 
it  tepid.  Then  he  stirred  in  mustard,  and  said  to  me,  in 
a  low,  hard  voice,  that  I  would  have  to  help  him  give 

Miss  L an  emetic.  If  we  waited,  did  nothing,  she 

would  die  before  the  doctor  came. 


To   M.  L.  G.  167 

He  held  her  up,  her  head  falling  back,  and  made  me 
pour  the  disgusting  liquid  slowly  into  her  mouth ;  but  it 
ran  out,  all  over  her  pretty  dress,  and  over  the  bed, 
staining  the  pure  white  muslin  and  the  pillows  and 
coverlet  bright  yellow.  I  felt  very  sick,  as  if  I  should 
faint. 

While  we  were  doing  this  dreadful  thing,  Cyril  came 
back  with  a  tall,  cadaverous  man.  They  walked  in  hastily, 
and  softly,  without  knocking,  and  Cyril  would  have  gone 
out  again,  if  the  doctor  had  not  told  him  to  stay ;  he 
might  need  help. 

"  Have  you  found  out  what  she  took  ?  "  the  tall  man 
asked.  He  carried  a  bag,  like  all  the  doctors  I  remem- 
bered. 

"  No,"  Herman  answered.  "  I've  looked,  but  there's 
nothing  in  the  glass,  and  I  don't  see  any  bottle." 

"  Well,  we  must  do  the  best  we  can,"  the  doctor  said. 
"  It's  certainly  some  sleeping  stuff,  very  likely  chloral  or 
chlorodyne.  That's  one  of  the  easiest  drugs  to  get,  in 
small  quantities." 

I  told  myself,  in  a  dull  way,  that  it  would  be  just  as 
well  to  remember  this,  in  case  I  ever  wanted  to  kill  my- 
self. One  could  get  chlorodyne,  little  by  little,  and  save 
it  up,  till  one  had  enough. 

The  doctor  injected  something  into  one  of  Alma's 
arms.  I  am  not  sure  what  it  was,  but  I  think  it  must 
have  been  brandy.  The  room  smelled  of  brandy.  He 
poured  something  into  her  mouth  —  only  a  few  drops ; 
but  whatever  it  was,  it  did  not  dribble  out  as  the  mustard 
water  had. 

"  She's  coming  to  ! "  he  said  at  last.     "  That's  all  right !  " 

He  and  Herman  got  Alma  off  the  bed,  and  with  their 


168  To   M.  L.  G. 

arms  round  her  waist  and  shoulders,  began  dragging  her 
up  and  down  the  room.  They  had  to  bear  her  whole 
weight.  She  hung  in  their  clasp,  her  feet  trailing,  not 
walking  at  all.  Her  head  fell  on  one  side,  and  her  hair 
slid  down,  in  a  long  braid,  which  slowly  unplaited  itself 
as  they  walked  her  back  and  forth.  By  and  by  her  eyes 
opened.  She  groaned  faintly,  and  then  was  violently 
sick. 

It  was  all  like  a  hideous  dream. 

They  would  not  let  her  stop  walking,  though  she 
begged  to  rest,  and  moaned  that  it  was  cruel  to  bring  her 
back  to  life.  When  she  became  fully  conscious,  after  a 
long  time,  she  saw  Cyril,  and  called  him,  in  a  weak 
voice.  But  Herman  said  harshly,  "  Go,  Cyril.  You 
aren't  needed  here  now."  And  very  quietly  Cyril  slipped 
out. 

If  I  had  had  a  spark  of  admiration  for  him  left,  it 
would  have  died  then.  For  all  his  beauty,  he  seemed  to 
me  a  worm. 

Alma  was  very  ill  that  night,  delirious  sometimes. 
Herman  and  I  took  turns  in  sitting  by  her.  I  did  not 
want  him  to  come,  but  he  insisted,  coldly.  He  said  that 
it  was  best  for  him  to  know  what  she  was  saying.  The 
woman  was  only  pretending  to  be  out  of  her  head,  so  as 
to  excite  our  sympathy,  he  stated  in  a  loud  voice,  but  no 
one  could  possibly  have  any  sympathy  for  her  now.  As 
if  she  hadn't  done  enough  harm  before,  she  had  finished 
the  thing  by  selfishly  trying  to  die  and  leave  her  com- 
pany to  shift  for  itself. 

Once,  when  she  seemed  to  understand  what  he  was 
saying,  Alma  faltered,  in  a  queer  little  bleating  voice, 
that  she  had  written  a  letter  to  Harry.  She  had  begged 


To   M.  L.  G.  169 

him  to  do  for  the  company  when  she  was  dead  what  he 
would  not  do  for  her  when  she  was  alive.  "  I  was  dying 
for  you  all,"  she  quavered. 

"  Pooh  !  That's  hysterical  nonsense,  and  you  know 
it,"  Herman  answered  harshly. 

When  I  cried  out,  "  You  are  a  brute  to  speak  to  her 
so  !  "  he  said,  "  It's  the  only  way  to  treat  hysteria.  I'm 
cruel  to  be  kind." 

Next  day  he  telegraphed  to  Harry,  but,  as  it  had  been 
when  Johnson  wired,  no  answer  came. 

Such  jewellery  as  Alma  owned,  she  had  given  Johnson 
to  sell  for  her,  thinking  to  use  the  money,  as  far  as  it 
would  go,  for  the  company's  hotel  bills  ;  but  Johnson 
had  taken  it  to  pay  his  own  fare  back  to  Chicago.  She 
had  nothing  left,  except  one  ring,  which  had  been  her 
dead  mother's.  She  had  meant  never  to  part  with  it, 
but  when  there  was  no  reply  from  Harry,  the  landlord 
refused  any  further  grace  for  us,  unless  she  gave  some- 
thing on  account.  I  was  the  one  whom  Alma  selected 
as  a  messenger  to  try  and  pawn  the  ring,  or  sell,  if  a 
pawnbroker  offered  too  little.  Knowing  how  she  valued 
her  mother's  gift,  however,  I  would  not  give  it  up  irrev- 
ocably. I  had  never  been  to  a  pawnbroker  before  ', 
and  if  I  had  gone  on  my  own  business,  I  might  have 
been  easily  browbeaten  by  the  insolent  young  Jew  who 
hectored  me.  As  it  was,  I  fought  for  Alma's  rights, 
and  came  out  of  the  sultry  den  at  last  with  fifty  dollars. 
Forty  I  gave,  at  Alma's  request,  to  the  landlord.  The 
remaining  ten  we  kept  to  pay  doctor's  bills,  Katherine 
having  chosen  this  time  to  fall  ill  (I  was  hard-hearted 
enough  to  believe)  in  the  hope  of  arousing  Charlie's  sym- 
pathy. If  that  was  her  idea,  she  seemed  partially  to  sue- 


iyo  To   M.  L.  G. 

ceed ;  for  Charlie,  as  well  as  the  others,  had  gone  over  to 
the  enemy.  He,  like  Cyril,  was  completely  dominated 
by  Herman ;  and  Herman's  order  was  :  alienation  from 
the  star,  until  she  found  some  way  of  liberating  the  com- 
pany. I  alone  was  for  Alma ;  and  Charlie's  calf-love  for 
me  died  under  the  lash  of  my  sharp  tongue.  He  deserted 
me  for  Katherine,  and  spent  most  of  his  time  reading 
Swinburne  to  her,  when  she  decided  to  be  convalescent. 

I  think  poor  Alma  tried  very  hard  to  die,  during  the 
dreary  days  that  followed  her  pitiful  failure.  No  human 
soul  could  go  deeper  down  into  the  valley  of  humiliation 
than  she,  and  keep  life  and  reason ;  for  she  saw  herself  as 
those  others  saw  her,  not  tragic,  not  even  pathetic,  but 
shamefully  ridiculous.  Nothing  could  have  excused  her 
attempt  to  die,  except  success. 

I  was  seldom  away  from  her,  for  I  had  left  Katherine's 
room  for  hers ;  and  Alma  talked  to  me  frankly,  in  mo- 
ments when  she  must  have  felt  that,  if  she  did  not  open 
her  heart,  she  would  go  mad. 

"  If  they'd  only  let  me  die,  everything  would  have  been 
right  for  you  all,"  she  repeated,  over  and  over.  "  Harry 
would  have  sent  money,  when  he  got  the  letter  I  wrote. 
He's  superstitious.  He  would  have  been  afraid  my  spirit 
might  haunt  him  if  he  refused ;  for  in  the  letter  I  told 
him  I  was  dying  just  to  get  my  people  out  of  trouble.  I 
said  I  wouldn't  rest  in  my  grave  unless  he  helped 
them." 

She  was  so  weak  from  mental  suffering  and  lack  of 
food  that  she  dozed  a  good  deal,  and  talked  in  her  sleep. 
At  such  times  she  lived  through  the  moments  of  her 
death  agony  —  for  such  it  would  have  been  if  we  had  not 
waked  her  in  time.  Often  she  would  bid  me  good-bye, 


To   M.  L.  G.  171 

just  as  she  had  when  she  sent  me  away,  meaning  to  take 
her  own  life  when  she  was  alone. 

"  Let  me  see  —  let  me  see;  the  letters,  I  must  write," 
she  would  murmur.  "  To  Harry  first.  I  want  Cyril's  to 
be  the  last  thing  I  touch  in  this  world.  I'll  say  that  I'd 
like  to  be  buried  in  the  white  dress.  I'm  all  washed  and 
ready  for  my  coffin.  Oh,  God,  forgive  me.  I  don't 
mean  to  be  wicked.  I  must  save  them,  somehow.  I 
can't  think  of  any  other  way.  Oh,  horrible !  I  don't 
want  to  drink  the  stuff.  I'm  young.  I  might  have  been 
happy.  But  it's  all  over.  It's  the  best  thing.  Will  God 
hear  me  if  I  pray  ?  Shall  I  die  on  my  knees,  or  shall  I 
lie  down  on  the  bed?" 

If  I  live  to  be  very  old,  I  can  never  forget  any  of  those 
ravings  of  hers.  Each  word  stabbed  my  heart  separately. 
It  seemed  as  if  I  must  bleed  pity.  And  I  hated  every 
one  in  the  company,  above  all  Herman  and  Cyril.  My 
only  comfort,  as  I  sat  by  Alma's  bed,  I  found  in  invent- 
ing dreadful  punishments  for  them,  some  awful  retribu- 
tion which  would  ruin  their  future  careers. 

In  two  or  three  days  Alma  insisted  on  trying  to  get 
up.  There  were  things  that  she  must  do,  she  said. 
When  I  had  helped  dress  her,  and  pin  up  her  long  hair, 
she  asked  to  see  the  landlord ;  and  keeping  me  in  the 
room,  told  him  that  she  had  a  plan  to  pay  everything. 
He  was  not  a  particularly  good-natured  person,  but  she 
was  so  pitiful  to  look  at,  such  a  wreck  of  the  charming 
girl  he  had  last  seen,  that  the  man's  face  and  manner 
softened.  He  promised  to  trust  her  for  a  few  days. 

When  he  had  gone  out,  she  explained  to  me  what  the 
plan  was.  It  seemed  that  there  was  an  important  mag- 
nate living  in  the  town,  on  whom  she  meant  to  call.  He 


172  To   M.  L.  G. 

was  interested  in  mines  and  railroads,  and  was  besides  a 
successful  politician.  Some  of  his  most  intimate  friends 
were  theatrical  stars.  It  was  supposed  that  he  had 
financed  more  than  one  company.  Alma  had  never 
met,  never  even  seen  him,  but  she  thought  that  he  had 
probably  been  in  the  audience,  when  we  had  presented 

S 's  play,  for  he  was  known  as  a  great  "  first  nighter." 

Her  attempt  at  suicide  had  been  hushed  up ;  nevertheless, 
the  troubles  of  the  company  had  given  plenty  of  copy  to 
the  local  newspapers  during  the  week ;  and  Alma  hoped 
that,  if  she  went  to  this  man's  office,  curiosity,  if  nothing 
else,  might  induce  him  to  receive  her. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  ask  him  to  do  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I'll  trust  to  luck,"  she  said  wearily.  "  He  might  have 
a  generous  impulse,  and  lend  me  money  enough  to  send 
everybody  back  to  Chicago  —  or  get  them  passes,  or 
something.  I  could  work  it  out  in  time,  if  he'd  take  me 
as  secretary."  (She  had  been  a  typist  and  stenographer 
after  her  father's  death  left  her  poor.)  "  Or,  when  I  get 
another  engagement  on  the  stage,  I'd  pay  him  back." 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  much  room  for  hope.  The 
man  was  known  to  be  hard  in  business ;  and  for  the  mo- 
ment Alma  had  lost  her  good  looks.  She  could  not  win 
him  with  the  bribe  of  her  beauty,  unless  he  had  seen  her 
before,  and  knew  what  she  could  be.  Still,  the  case  was 
desperate. 

Alma  left  the  hotel  for  the  first  time  in  many  days, 
wearing  the  white  dress  in  which  she  had  meant  to  die. 
It  had  been  washed,  and  the  horrid  stains  had  all  come 
out.  But  its  daintiness,  and  the  youthful  style  in  which 
it  was  made,  accentuated  her  sick  paleness  and  the  sharp- 
ened outline  of  her  features.  Her  black  hat  was  of  a  pic- 


To  M.  L.  G.  173 

turesque  shape,  with  a  long  plume.  It  had  framed  her 
face  deliriously  when  she  was  well ;  but  with  her  sad, 
hollow  eyes,  shadowed  underneath,  and  her  limp  hair, 
which  had  lost  its  life  and  lustre,  she  was  like  a  ghastly 
caricature  of  her  old  self,  done  in  chalks  by  some  cruel 
French  artist. 

I  walked  with  Alma  to  the  building  in  which  the  poli- 
tician had  his  offices,  but  she  preferred  not  to  have  me 
with  her  when  she  pleaded  with  him.  Now  the  hour  had 
come,  she  was  half  fainting  with  suspense.  I  was  afraid 
for  her,  as  I  stood  watching  the  thin  white  figure  carried 
up  in  the  lift. 

For  a  long  time  I  wandered  back  and  forth,  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  street,  staring  at  things  in  the  shop 
windows,  which  I  did  not  really  see,  because  Alma's  face 
floated  before  my  eyes. 

At  last,  after  half  an  hour  which  seemed  twice  that 
time,  she  came  out  through  the  big  open  doorway  where 
all  the  names  of  the  office  occupiers  were  printed  in  gold 
letters  on  each  side.  She  looked  rather  better,  for  there 
were  hot  spots  of  color  on  her  cheek-bones,  and  her  lips 
were  red,  as  if  she  had  bitten  them. 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,"  she  sighed,  heavily,  "  it  was  just  as  bad  as  I 
thought  it  would  be,  at  first.  Then  it  was  a  little  easier, 
for  he  promised  to  think  things  over.  He  may  advance 
the  money  and  give  me  something  to  do,  to  work  out 
the  debt.  But  don't  talk  to  me  any  more,  just  now. 
I've  had  all  I  can  stand." 

We  walked  back  to  the  hotel  without  speaking,  Alma 
leaning  on  my  arm. 

Next  day  the  great  man  called  on  Alma.     I  was  in 


174  To  M.  L.  G. 

her  room  when  his  card  came  up.  He  was  waiting  in 
the  public  parlor,  and  she  went  down-stairs  to  see  him, 
her  head  hanging.  He  must  have  stayed  nearly  an 
hour;  and  towards  the  end  of  the  interview,  the  land- 
lord was  invited  in  for  a  consultation.  Alma  mentioned 
this  afterwards,  when  she  asked  me  to  go  and  tell  the 
company  from  her  that  she  had  been  •'  able  to  make 

things  right  for  them."  She  was  going  to  stay  in , 

and  do  secretarial  work,  in  payment  of  money  advanced. 
To-morrow  they  would  all  be  sent  home,  with  enough 
in  their  pockets  to  pay  for  food  and  sleeping  berths. 
The  salary  owing  she  could  not  give  them,  but  hoped 
she  might  be  able  to  do  so,  some  day. 

"  Do  you  think  I'll  go  off  like  that  and  leave  you  ?  " 
I  exclaimed,  indignantly.  But  she  stopped  me  with  a 
tired  gesture.  "  You  must  go,"  she  said.  "  For  my  sake. 
I  can't  keep  you  here.  Dear  little  friend,  for  heaven's 
sake  don't  argue,  unless  you  want  to  kill  me." 

I  said  not  another  word,  but  went  as  she  had  bidden 
me  to  go,  and  told  the  company,  assembled  in  Herman's 
room,  what  had  been  arranged  for  them. 

They  were  all  delighted.     Only  Cyril  looked  ashamed. 

Saying  good-bye  to  Alma  was  the  greatest  grief  that 
had  come  to  me  then;  even  greater  than  Boy's  death, 
because  that  had  been  so  sudden,  and  I  was  too  young 
to  understand  fully. 

On  the  way  back  to  Chicago,  in  the  train,  the  people 
for  whose  sake  she  had  stayed  said  to  each  other  openly 

that  she  had  stopped  in  to  be  the  politician's 

mistress.  Herman  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  man, 
and  told  his  eager  listeners  that  he  was  a  person  who 
had  "  only  one  use  for  women."  Instead  of  being  grate- 


To   M.  L.  G.  175 

ful  and  pitying  Alma  as,  at  worst,  a  tragic  martyr,  they 
seemed  to  despise  her  for  what  she  was  doing.  I  heard 
the  words  "  secretarial  work  "  spoken  scornfully  by  Her- 
man, and  the  three  girls  tittered. 

I  came  out  of  this  episode  with  a  low  opinion  of  men. 
Old  or  young,  ugly  or  handsome,  I  thought  them  all  the 
same  at  heart.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  never  would  I 
love  as  Alma  had  loved  Cyril,  because  no  man  was  worth 
such  love.  I  decided  that  I  would  use  men,  but  would 
never  let  them  use  me. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.  F advanced  money  to  pay  my  way 
east,  from  Chicago  to  New  York.     She  would 
deduct  the  amount,  as  well  as  her  commis- 
sion, from  the  next  salary  I  earned. 

The  night  I  came  back  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  Mrs. 

F 's  flat,  because  I  had  no  money,  and  knew  of  no 

one  who  would  take  me  in.  After  the  freedom  of  the 
last  few  months,  the  shabby  room  shared  with  Fifi  and 
two  strange  girls  was  disgusting  to  me.  Fifi  was  more 
disagreeable  than  ever,  and  the  new  girls  were  not  so 
pretty  or  pleasant  as  Julia  and  Kitty.  I  lay  awake  the 
first  night,  making  up  my  mind  that  I  would  get  away 
as  soon  as  possible,  whatever  happened. 

It  was  a  bad  moment  for  finding  engagements,  and  six 

hateful  weeks  passed  before  Mrs.  F could  get"  me 

anything  to  do.  Even  then,  it  was  a  part  with  only  two 
lines  to  speak ;  but  it  was  in  a  new  play,  by  a  popular 
author,  and  the  theatre  was  a  good  one,  if  a  little  old- 
fashioned.  The  salary  was  very  small,  but  I  could  live 

on  it.     The  management  promised  Mrs.  F that  my 

name  should  appear  on  the  bill,  and  it  was  a  great  thing 
to  be  in  New  York.  Fifi  was  engaged  for  the  same 
production,  but  for  a  part  in  which  she  expected  to 
make  a  "  hit."  She  was  pleased  to  be  so  far  above  me. 
J  was  to  come  on  only  in  the  third  act,  a  ballroom  scene, 
and  while  the  people  of  the  play  were  dancing  a  cotillion, 
a  murder  was  being  committed  in  another  part  of  the 

176 


To  M.  L.  G.  177 

house.  The  woman  supposed  to  be  killed  had  never 
been  seen  by  the  audience,  but  had  been  constantly 
spoken  of  by  the  other  characters.  She  was  rich,  old, 
very  eccentric,  rather  mysterious,  and  had  once  been  a 
beauty.  Having  lost  her  looks,  but  not  her  vanity,  she 
had  shut  herself  up  for  years,  letting  no  one  see  her 
ravaged  face,  except  her  own  maid,  and  a  lawyer  engaged 
in  drafting  her  will.  That  document  was  of  immense 
importance  to  the  hero  and  heroine,  and  the  mystery 
surrounding  the  life  of  the  old  woman  was  meant  to 
focus  upon  her  character  the  interest  of  the  audience, 
though  she  was  never  seen. 

I  came  early  to  the  first  rehearsal,  and  heard  the 
actors  run  through  the  play  with  the  author  and  stage- 
manager.  Though  the  parts  were  only  read,  and  no 
one  attempted  to  act,  I  felt  the  thrill  which  the  audience 
would  feel  in  the  dramatic  situation  unfolding  around 
this  hidden  old  woman. 

In  the  third  act,  when  the  time  was  drawing  near  for 
the  murder,  the  rehearsal  was  stopped  by  some  misun- 
derstanding about  a  scream,  which  was  supposed  to  in- 
terrupt the  cotillion.  The  author  laid  great  stress  upon 
this  scream,  and  was  vexed  because  neither  the  star  nor 
the  stage-manager  had  remembered  his  advice  to  engage 
an  actress  especially  for  it. 

"  The  whole  end  of  the  act  depends  on  that  scream," 
he  insisted.  "  It  will  have  to  be  a  tremendous  effect,  or 
it  will  fall  flat." 

He  was  a  very  successful  man,  who  had  made  money 
enough  from  his  plays  to  build  a  beautiful  house  up-town ; 
but  this  was  his  most  serious  attempt  at  drama.  His 
other  works  had  been  mostly  comedies.  Both  the  star 


178  To   M.  L.  G. 

(a  matinee  idol)  and  the  stage-manager  were  anxious  to 
please  the  author.  They  assured  him  that  it  would  be 
easy  to  find  a  woman  who  could  scream  well. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  demanded,  shortly.  "  It  takes  a 
real  actress  to  scream,  I  tell  you." 

The  stage-manager,  who  was  English,  said  that  he 
would  "  sample  "  some  of  the  "  extra  ladies,"  and  if  no 
one  among  them  gave  satisfaction,  a  special  woman  could 
be  engaged  later.  He  called  one  of  the  older  and  more 
intelligent  girls  who  were  "  on  "  for  the  cotillion,  and  or- 
dered her  to  try  a  scream. 

She  came  forward  conceitedly  and  obeyed,  but  the 
scream  was  a  dismal  failure.  It  sounded  like  a  penny 
whistle  in  the  big,  empty  theatre. 

"  Good  heavens,  girl,  don't  you  know  you're  being 
murdered  ?  "  exclaimed  the  stage-manager. 

"  Horribly  murdered,"  added  the  author. 

"  You  are  frightened  almost  to  death  before  you  are 
touched,"  the  stage-manager  went  on,  graphically.  "  You 
realize  you're  going  to  be  killed,  unless  you  can  yell  loud 
enough  to  bring  some  one  to  your  help.  Everything 
depends  upon  that  shriek.  Put  your  heart  into  it.  Put 
your  soul  into  it." 

The  girl  screamed  again,  and  her  voice  cracked.  The 
author  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  threw  up  his  hands. 
Another  of  the  young  women  was  summoned,  then 
another,  and  another.  Their  efforts  to  scream  like  a  per- 
son being  murdered  were  ludicrous.  The  star  and  the 
leading  lady  laughed  silently  in  the  wings,  their  shoulders 
shaking.  The  latter  was  "  dared  "  to  show  how  the 
scream  ought  to  be  uttered,  and  took  the  dare  with  gay 
confidence  in  her  own  powers.  But,  clever  actress  as  she 


To   M.  L.  G.  179 

was,  her  scream  was  not  effective.  It  sounded  young 
and  thin,  and  had  no  real  thrill  of  horror  in  it.  I  would 
not  have  believed  that  to  scream  could  be  so  difficult. 

Suddenly  an  old  memory  rushed  back  to  me.  For  an 
instant  I  was  a  little  child,  sitting  up  half  undressed,  in 
a  tumbled  bed,  hearing  the  thud,  thud  of  a  falling  body, 
and  one  nightmare  shriek  that  broke  off  short  on  its 
highest  note. 

The  impression  was  so  strong  that  I  was  lost  in  it. 
Then,  as  suddenly  as  I  had  plunged  into  the  past,  I  rose 
again  to  the  surface  of  the  present.  The  stage-manager's 
eyes  were  on  me.  Mine  were  on  him.  Without  know- 
ing it,  I  had  called  to  him  with  my  eyes.  They  had 
something  to  tell  him. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said.  "  You  look  as  if  you  thought 
you  could  do  the  trick." 

I  obeyed,  and  came  down  centre  to  where  he  stood 
with  the  author  of  the  play.  I  was  not  at  all  nervous.  I 
knew  I  could  scream  exactly  as  Ma  had  screamed  when 
she  fell  to  her  death. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  exclaimed  the  author,  impatiently.  "  What's 
the  good  of  bothering  with  a  kid  of  that  age  ?  She'll 
pipe  like  a  cricket.  I  want  some  one  to  scream  like  an 
old  woman." 

"  I  can  scream  like  an  old  woman,"  I  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  All  right.  Scream  ahead,  and  let's  hear  what  you 
can  do,"  the  stage-manager  commanded. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  saw  the  ugly  room,  with  me  hud- 
dled in  bed,  and  Henry  standing  by  the  door.  I 
screamed  as  Ma  had  screamed,  just  before  she  broke  her 
neck. 


i8o  To   M.  L.  G. 

When  I  stopped  short,  with  a  kind  of  gurgle,  as  she 
had  stopped  when  her  spine  cracked,  every  one  was  quite 
still.  Then  the  author  of  the  play  said  under  his  breath, 
«  Good  God ! " 

I  could  hear  my  heart  beating,  but  not  because  I  was 
nervous  about  what  they  would  all  think.  It  was  only 
beating  as  it  did  when  Ma's  scream  broke  off,  and  I 
felt  sick,  as  I  had  felt  when  I  ran  in  my  bare  feet  to 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  where  the  oilcloth  was  cold  and 
torn. 

When  no  one  spoke  to  me,  I  looked  around.  The  star 
had  his  eyes  fixed  on  me.  Other  people  were  staring  at 
me  too.  After  a  few  seconds,  the  stage-manager  said, 
"  Where  did  you  learn  to  scream  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  heard  some  one  do  it  once,"  I  answered. 

"  When?  "  the  author  asked. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  girl." 

Then  he  wanted  to  know  what  was  my  age  now.  I 
said  that  I  was  "  going  on  fifteen."  "  Going  on  fifteen  " 
sounded  to  me  much  older  than  fourteen. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  her  ?  "  the  stage-manager  in- 
quired, in  a  dry  tone. 

"  My  God,  yes,"  he  answered. 

The  stage-manager  looked  at  me.  "  She's  got  two 
lines  to  speak,"  he  said.  "  If  she  does  the  scream,  she 
can't  be  on  in  this  scene." 

"  Two  lines.     Great  heavens  !  "  grumbled  the  author. 

He  was  a  curious,  spasmodic  man,  boiling  with  emotions. 

Once  he  had  been  an  actor,  but  had  not  succeeded.     He 

\  had  felt  so  much  that  he  could  not  make  other  people 

feel. 

"  Which  would  you  rather  do  ?  "  asked  the  stage-man- 


To   M.  L.  G.  181 

ager,"  come  on  for  the  cotillion,  in  a  smart  dress  and  look 
pretty  and  speak  the  two  lines  you  were  engaged  to 
speak,  or  scream  '  off/  and  never  be  seen  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  scream,"  I  said. 

His  face  and  the  author's  both  brightened.  They 
glanced  at  each  other.  I  saw  that  they  were  interested 
in  me.  But  it  was  true.  I  would  not  have  given  up  the 
scream  for  anything. 

"  You  understand,  I  suppose,  that  you  can't  have  your 
name  on  the  programme  if  you  do  the  scream  ?  "  the 
stage-manager  explained  carefully.  "  That  would  spoil 
the  effect  for  the  audience.  An  old  woman,  a  great 
character,  though  she's  never  seen,  screams  when  she's 
being  murdered." 

"  I  know,"  I  said.     "  I've  been  listening  to  the  play." 

"  Oh,  she's  been  listening  to  the  play,"  echoed  the 
author. 

It  was  arranged  that  I  was  to  scream,  and  one  of  the 
other  girls  who  had  only  one  line  to  speak  got  my  two. 
I  was  to  draw  the  same  salary  as  before. 

Every  day  after  that  they  made  me  shriek  when  the 
cue  came.  They  would  never  let  me  off  the  scream,  even 
though  the  principals  were  simply  walking  through  their 
parts.  Perhaps  the  stage-manager  did  not  want  me  to 
get  out  of  practice.  But  I  did  not  tire  of  my  scream. 
Always  I  saw  the  little  horrid  room,  with  the  flaring  gas- 
light, and  Henry  at  the  door,  clenching  and  unclenching 
his  hands. 

One  day  the  author  said,  "  That's  the  scream  of  an  old 
woman  with  a  short,  fat  neck."  And  he  asked  me  curious 
questions  about  my  "  model " ;  but  I  would  not  tell  him 
much.  I  hated  to  speak  about  Ma,  and  those  old  days ; 


182  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  hardly  knew  why,  except  that  it  made  me  feel  sick,  and 
that  my  hands  grew  cold. 

Others  asked  me  questions,  too,  and  the  star  talked  to 
me  a  little  sometimes,  when  his  great  scene  after  the 
scream  was  over.  He  assured  me  that  such  a  scream  as 
mine  would  "  work  up  the  scene  immensely."  The  men 
spoke  to  me  oftener  than  the  women  did.  The  leading 
lady  had  not  noticed  me  at  all,  and  Fifi  said  it  was  be- 
cause she  thought  me  forward  and  common.  It  may  be 
that  I  was  both  ! 

On  the  first  night  I  came  to  the  theatre  before  the  cur- 
tain went  up  and  asked  permission  of  the  stage-manager 
to  stand  in  the  wings,  out  of  every  one's  way. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for  ? "  he  asked. 
Ever  since  the  first  rehearsal  he  had  treated  me  very 
kindly. 

"  I  want  to  hear  the  whole  piece,  and  what  they  are 
saying  about  me,"  I  answered. 

He  was  busy,  but  he  stopped  for  an  instant.  "  About 
you  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Why,  about  Aunt  Teresa,"  I  explained.  That  was 
the  name  of  the  old  woman  who  never  appeared,  yet 
dominated  the  play. 

"  All  right,  stand  where  you  can  hear  all  you  want  to," 
he  said.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you'd  do  more  than 
scream  some  day.  You've  got  what  they  call '  tempera- 
ment/ as  well  as  intelligence  and  concentration." 

I  knew  he  meant  that  I  would  be  a  good  actress,  and 
I  was  delighted.  Not  so  much  because  I  was  ambitious, 
as  because  I  liked  to  be  praised.  I  felt  that  I  could  act, 
and  I  loved  acting  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world  ;  but  I  was  not  like  Joan  of  Arc  among  her  sheep. 


To   M.  L.  G.  183 

I  heard  no  voices  calling  me  to  glory.  I  loved  acting 
because  it  was  in  my  blood,  inherited  from  my  parents. 
And  I  suppose  it  was  true  that  I  had  what  is  called  "  tem- 
perament." 

I  think  I  screamed  better  on  the  first  night  of  the  play 
than  I  had  at  rehearsals,  just  because  of  my  "  tempera- 
ment," and  the  wonderful  thrill  that  goes  with  a  first 
night. 

After  my  scream,  there  was  a  hush  in  the  theatre ;  no 
applause ;  but  it  was  the  stillness  that  actors  know  means 
more  than  applause.  I  was  glad,  not  for  myself,  because 
I  was  too  excited  to  think  of  myself  then,  but  for  the  act. 
It  was  a  fine  act,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  helped  it  to  make 
the  right  impression. 

There  was  another  afterwards,  a  fourth ;  and  that  was 
good,  too,  but  less  intense,  and  perhaps  let  the  play  down 
a  little.  Still,  it  went  well ;  and  in  the  dressing-room, 
which  I  shared  with  several  other  girls,  I  could  hear  a 
thunder  of  applause.  The  curtain  went  up  and  down,  on 
five  or  six  calls.  Just  before  the  leading  people  came  off 
the  stage,  I  left  the  theatre,  and  hurried  back  to  my  hated 

room  at  Mrs.  F 's.  Already  a  plan  for  getting  away 

from  her  was  growing  in  my  head.  Two  of  the  girls 
who  dressed  with  me  at  the  theatre  were  pleasant  and 
jolly.  We  were  making  friends,  and  I  hoped  that  they 
would  be  willing  to  have  me  "  chum  "  with  them.  They 
two  shared  a  room  in  a  building  where  artists  lived,  and 
by  day  they  often  acted  as  models.  Their  room  had  been 
a  studio,  and  they  said  it  was  very  big.  I  meant  to  ask, 
when  I  knew  them  a  little  better,  if  they  would  let  me 
join  them,  paying  a  third  of  the  expenses. 

Fifi  was  already  at  home  when  I  arrived.     She  was 


184  To   M.  L.  G. 

**  on "  only  in  the  second  act,  and  having  one  of  the 
bilious  headaches  to  which  she  was  subject,  she  had 
made  her  latest  "  mash  "  bring  her  back  quickly  to  her 

mother.     Mrs.    F had   been  "  in   front "  to  see  as 

much  of  the  play  as  concerned  her  daughter.  Then 
she  too  had  come  away,  without  waiting  to  hear  my 
scream.  Nothing  that  I  did,  or  was,  interested  her 
particularly ;  but  I  think  she  was  glad,  for  Fifi's  sake, 
to  dash  any  sense  of  triumph  I  might  have  had.  The 
moment  I  opened  the  door,  she  said,  without  referring 
to  the  play,  "  I've  got  some  news  for  you.  Just  read 
it  in  '  The  Clipper.'  Your  mother's  dead.  Typhoid 

fever.     Died  in ." 

She  named  the  town  where  Alma  L had  tried  to 

kill  herself. 


CHAPTER  XV 

TO   my   astonishment,  all  the  newspapers  men- 
tioned the  scream.     They  described  it  as  thrill- 
ing,  wonderful,   blood-curdling.     It   was,   one 
critic  said,  "  as  if  that  hidden  Aunt  Teresa  had  become 
incarnate  before  the  eyes  of  the  audience,  at  the  moment 
of  her  death."     Most  of  the  papers  attributed  the  "  tre- 
mendous sensation  "  of  the  third  act  to  the  scream. 

The  second  night  of  the  play  I  did  not  go  to  the 
theatre  till  late,  because  I  was  thinking  about  my 
mother,  and  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  I  had  seen  Dearie's 
face  before  me  all  day,  just  as  it  used  to  be  when  we 
lived  in  the  room  of  the  skylight.  I  was  not  exactly 
sorrowful,  for  she  had  gone  out  of  my  life  long  ago, 
and  had  wished  never  to  hear  of  me  again ;  but  I  was 
very  thoughtful ;  and  the  girls'  congratulations  on  my 
scream  seemed  irrelevant,  when  I  came  into  the  dress- 
ing-room. I  had  nothing  to  do  there,  except  to  take 
off  my  hat,  and  put  it  on  when  I  left ;  but  I  was  to  have 
dressed  in  that  room,  if  I  had  played  a  part ;  and  it  was 
a  place  to  wait  in. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  wings  on  this  second  night, 
the  'stage-manager  told  me  that  several  newspaper  men 
had  asked  about  the  woman  who  screamecl.  They 
wanted  to  know  who  I  was,  and  what  I  was  like ;  but 
it  was  proposed  to  make  a  mystery  of  me.  The 
"  management "  thought  that  to  do  so  would  be  a  good 
advertisement,  and  might  "  work  up  paragraphs  "  ;  still, 
the  secret  was  bound  to  leak  out  sooner  or  later. 

185 


186  To  M.  L.  G. 

Even   then    I  had  no  idea  of  what  my  little  success 
would  mean.     I  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  my  plan 

for  getting  away  from    Mrs.  F ,  to  care  much  about 

the  newspapers.  The  girls  at  the  theatre,  Jen  and 
Hatty,  were  willing  to  take  me  in  with  them,  but  I  had 
trouble  with  Mrs.  F .  She  said  that  she  had  en- 
gaged to  keep  me  till  I  was  sixteen,  and  would  not  let 
me  go  until  then.  I  insisted  that  Madame  had  meant 
me  to  stay  only  till  I  could  earn  enough  to  keep  myself. 
I  did  not  know  the  Baroness's  latest  address,  and  Mrs. 

F refused  to  give  it,  but  I  found  out  from  the  new 

"  Madame "    at   the   old   place,   and    cabled  to  Europe. 

The   answer   came   that  I  must  stop  with  Mrs.  F , 

otherwise  the  Baroness  would  not  be  responsible  for 
my  expenses  at  any  time  when  I  might  happen  to  be 
out  of  an  engagement.  The  businesslike  wording  of 
the  telegram  made  me  think  that  the  Baron  had  written 
it.  Nevertheless,  I  would  have  gone  to  Jen  and  Hatty, 
and  risked  everything ;  but  the  girls  were  afraid  of 

Mrs.    F ,   who   could   hurt  them  in  the  profession ; 

and  they  dared  not  take  me  against  her  will.     All  that 

Mrs.    F wanted,   however,   was    Madame's  money, 

which  she  still  had  an  excuse  to  draw,  on  the  ground 
that  my  salary  was  not  large  enough  to  support  me. 
She  was  glad  to  have  me  spend  as  much  time  as  I  liked 
by  day  or  night  in  some  one  else's  house,  in  order  to  get 
me  out  of  Fifi's  way.  I  began  to  give  Jen  and  Hatty 

half  my  salary  each  week,  as  soon  as  Mrs.  F had 

deducted  what  she  had  a  right  to  take.  For  this  con- 
sideration, the  girls  let  me  sleep  on  a  sofa  in  their  big, 
bare  studio,  as  often  as  I  wished,  and  help  them  cook 
and  eat  their  picnic  meals.  They  had  a  little  stove  in 


To   M.  L.  G.  187 

the  room,  which  was  kitchen,  dining-room,  parlor,  and 
bedroom  in  one,  and  on  it  we  made  all  sorts  of  messes. 
I  got  to  know  the  young  artists  who  lived  in  the  house  ; 
and  through  them,  met  some  of  the  newspaper  reporters 
who  had  inquired  about  me  at  the  theatre.  One  of  the 
artists,  in  love  with  Jen,  sketched  my  head,  and  the 
drawing  was  published  in  the  Sunday  edition  of  a  big 
newspaper.  Underneath  was  printed,  in  large  letters, 
"  The  Woman  of  the  Scream." 

The  thing  that  delighted  me  most  about  this  was  being 
called  a  "  woman,"  for  I  was  only  just  fifteen.  But  the 
portrait  stirred  up  the  interest  of  the  public  in  the  "  scream 
mystery."  It  had  never  entirely  died  out,  for  often  there 
were  paragraphs  in  the  papers  referring  to  the  "  reticence 
of  the  management  "  in  regard  to  it.  A  story  was  started 
that  the  woman  who  screamed  was  an  old  actress  who 
had  been  a  great  favorite,  but  for  one  reason  or  another 
had  lost  her  vogue.  Some  said  that  she  drank,  others 
that  her  face  was  spoiled  by  smallpox,  and  that  for  the 
sake  of  her  vanity  and  past  reputation  she  did  not  wish 
her  name  to  come  out. 

As  every  one  in  the  theatre  knew  who  screamed,  the 
newspaper  men  probably  knew  too,  and  were  paid  by  the 
management  to  write  up  the  mystery.  But  when  my 
picture  appeared,  it  may  have  been  that  they  thought  a 
new  turn  of  affairs  would  keep  up  excitement.  I  was 
encouraged  to  be  interviewed,  and  photographed.  There 
were  articles  about  me  in  the  stage  papers,  and  the  big 
Sunday  editions  of  the  dailies,  nearly  every  week. 
Eventually  I  was  said  to  be  even  younger  than  I  was, 
which  annoyed  me  extremely.  There  were  references  to 
my  family,  and  to  my  past  life,  but  they  were  always 


188  To  M.  L.  G. 

wrong,  perhaps  purposely  wrong.  I  was  said  to  be  the 
daughter  of  a  great  actor,  who  had  died  mad  ;  and  extra- 
ordinary stories  were  told  about  my  childhood.  I  would 
have  liked  to  contradict  most  of  these,  but  my  friend  the 
stage-manager  strongly  advised  me  not  to  do  so.  The 
made-up  things,  he  argued,  were  all  more  interesting  than 
the  truth,  and  by  attracting  attention  would  help  me  on 
in  my  career.  By  and  by,  instead  of  denying  the  sensa- 
tional tales,  I  mischievously  added  to  them,  and  told 
people  anecdotes  about  myself  which  I  wished  might 
have  been  true,  just  as,  long  ago,  I  had  fibbed  about 
Lenny  and  his  presents  of  candy. 

Fifi  was  so  disagreeable  and  sarcastic  that  I  spent  more 
time  than  ever  with  Jen  and  Hatty,  practically  living  with 
them,  in  the  big,  untidy  studio,  until  at  last  a  dreadful 
tragedy  happened  there. 

It  did  not  concern  me,  except  indirectly,  and  was  so 
horrible  that  I  need  not  tell  you  much  about  it.  Jen  was 
older  than  Hatty  ;  a  beautiful,  fair  girl,  with  wistful  eyes 
and  little  chiselled  features,  who  had  been  painted  by  her 
artist  lover  as  "  Priscilla,  the  Puritan  Maiden."  We  al- 
ways called  her  "  Priscilla  "  or  "  Puritan  "  ;  and,  though 
she  loved  fun,  she  was  prim  in  her  manner,  compared 
with  Hatty  and  me.  She  used  to  reprove  us  sweetly  for 
our  wild  pranks  and  weird  slang,  and  though  I  pretended 
to  laugh  at  her  stiffness,  I  really  looked  up  to  and 
respected  her. 

If  the  tragedy  had  fallen  upon  Hatty,  I  should  not  have 
been  so  utterly  taken  by  surprise. 

Poor  Jen,  of  the  gentle  voice  and  gold-haloed,  saintly 
face,  died  in  agony  after  a  lingering  illness,  brought  on 
by  herself — though  one  who  should  have  loved  and 


To   M.  L.  G.  189 

protected  her  was  more  truly  to  blame  than  she.  After 
the  first  awful  night  of  her  suffering,  she  was  carried  away 
from  the  studio  to  a  hospital,  where  the  end  came  after 
many  days.  The  big,  whitewashed  room,  with  its 
Turkey  red  curtains  and  broken  odds  and  ends  of  furni- 
ture, was  haunted  for  us  both  by  Jen,  screaming  on  her 
sofa  bed,  praying  to  die,  and  end  her  anguish.  We  could 
not  bear  to  stay  there,  and  Hatty  gave  up  the  studio. 
She  went  to  live  with  an  old  friend,  in  a  boarding-house, 

and  I  had  to  go  back  to  Mrs.  F .     It  was  worse  than 

ever  before  in  the  dingy  flat.  Each  night  and  morning 
I  said  to  myself,  "  I'd  do  anything  —  anything  —  to  get 
away  !  " 

And  now  comes  the  part  of  my  life-story  where  you 
would  stop  me,  I  think,  if  I  were  talking  to  you  instead 
of  writing.  Yet  I  beg,  if  this  reaches  you,  and  you  have 
read  so  far,  that  you  will  go  on.  It  will  hurt  you  to  read, 
almost  as  much  as  it  hurts  me  to  write.  But  just  because 
it  is  the  hardest  of  all  to  tell,  it  is  the  most  important  for 
you  to  read. 

One  night  news  went  round  behind  scenes  that  a  man- 
ager of  another  New  York  theatre  was  in  the  stage  box. 
He  was  interested  in  several  theatres,  not  only  in  New 
York,  but  in  other  big  towns.  This  made  him  a  man  of 
importance  to  actors  ;  and  each  of  the  principals  in  the 
play  hoped,  of  course,  that  he  was  in  front  looking  out  for 
talent.  A  wave  of  excitement  ran  through  the  dressing- 
rooms,  as  it  always  does  when  such  a  person  is  in  the 
theatre. 

From  the  place  where  I  stood  in  the  wings  to  give  my 
scream,  I  could  peep  out  through  a  tiny  hole  in  the  canvas 
wall  of  the  ballroom  setting.  I  could  not  see  much  of 


190  To   M.  L.  G. 

the  auditorium,  except  the  front  and  second  rows,  but  I 
could  look  into  two  of  the  boxes,  of  which  the  stage  box 
was  one. 

In  it  sat  a  stout,  red-faced  man,  with  a  short  throat  that 
seemed  to  run  straight  down  in  a  line  with  the  sides  of 
his  head.  He  had  brown  hair,  turning  gray  ;  a  low,  square 
forehead  and  prominent  light  eyes,  which  looked  shrewd 
and  very  bold,  perhaps  because  his  eyelashes  were  singu- 
larly short  and  stiff,  like  tiny  bristles,  and  when  I  peeped 
at  him,  just  after  my  scream  (conceitedly  wishing  to  see 
the  effect),  he  was  bending  forward,  with  his  fat  hands  on 
his  fat  knees.  On  his  fingers  I  caught  the  glitter  of  more 
than  one  handsome  ring. 

Immediately  afterwards,  I  ran  down-stairs  to  the  dress- 
ing-room which  I  shared  still  with  Hatty  and  the  new 
girl  who  had  stepped  into  poor  Jen's  vacant  place.  I  had 
nothing  more  to  do,  but  I  lingered,  as  usual,  hating  to  go 
home.  Before  the  curtain  rang  up  on  the  last  act,  the 
call-boy  brought  word  that  the  stage-manager  wished  to 
speak  with  me.  I  was  to  go  at  once,  and  look  for  him 
near  the  star  dressing-room. 

A  little  anxious,  lest  I  was  to  be  scolded,  I  hurried  to 
obey.  When  I  arrived,  he  had  not  yet  come.  The  star's 
door  was  open,  and  standing  in  it  was  the  red-faced  man 
who  had  been  in  the  stage  box.  Evidently  he  was  call- 
ing on  the  star ;  and  he  looked  me  over  with  his  prominent 
eyes  as  I  waited.  I  looked  at  him,  too,  and  then  turned 
away,  as  if  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  staring  at  me  still. 
But  I  did  know.  I  saw  by  his  expression  that  he  thought 
me  pretty,  and  that  he  wanted  me  to  know  what  he 
thought. 

Presently  the  stage-manager  came,  and  I  was  surprised 


To   M.  L.  G.  191 

as  well  as  relieved  to  find  that  he  only  wished  to  speak 
about  a  change  of  position  for  me,  when  I  screamed  in 
the  wings.  It  was  a  very  slight  change,  and  needed  no 
rehearsing;  he  could  as  well  have  told  me  the  next 
night.  In  three  or  four  minutes  he  let  me  go,  and  as  I 
walked  slowly  away,  I  gave  a  glance  at  the  star  dressing- 
room.  But  the  door  was  shut. 

Every  morning  about  eleven,  I  came  to  the  theatre  to 
look  at  the  letter-board.  Most  of  us  received  a  good 
many  silly  love-letters  from  boys  and  men  who  watched 
the  stage  entrance,  and  my  average  was  one  or  two  a 
day.  The  morning  after  the  visit  of  the  great  man,  I 
found  a  neat,  square  envelope,  addressed  to  me  in  type- 
writing. The  envelope  was  plain,  but  the  paper  inside 
had  on  it  the  name  of  a  theatre.  There  were  only  a  few 
lines  in  typing,  but  they  made  my  heart  jump.  The 
manager  who  had  been  in  the  stage  box  directed  the 
writer  (his  secretary)  to  say  that  he  would  be  pleased  to 

see  me  in  his  office  at  the Theatre,  about  three 

o'clock  that  afternoon. 

Already  I  knew  too  much  about  theatrical  people  to 
be  sure  that  the  invitation  would  lead  to  anything  im- 
portant. But  Mrs.  F ,  and  my  girl  friends  who  were 

older  than  I,  had  taught  me  a  kind  of  shrewdness  which 
was  not  mine  by  nature.  I  was  ready  to  dance  with  ex- 
citement, and  I  decided  to  look  as  pretty,  and  be  as 
fascinating,  as  I  could.  I  lunched  alone  at  a  cheap 
restaurant  near  the  theatre,  to  compose  my  mind,  and 
went  back  to  the  flat  only  in  time  to  get  ready  for  the 
interview. 

Mrs.  F and  Fifi  were  both  there,  but  I  said  not  a 

word  to  them  about  the  letter.  I  knew  that,  if  nothing 


192  To   M.  L.  G. 

good  came  of  the  visit,  they  would  twit  me,  and  laugh. 
I  put  on  the  dress  and  hat  I  liked  best ;  the  ones  which 
made  me  look  the  most  "  grown  up."  With  my  hair  in 
a  great  clump  at  the  nape  of  my  neck,  parted  a  little  on 
one  side,  and  drooping  in  a  wave  over  my  forehead,  I 
could  easily  be  mistaken  for  seventeen. 

Nowadays  I  cannot  bear  to  see  my  hair  fall  over  my 
forehead,  even  for  an  instant,  in  the  thick  wave  I  used  to 
wear  then.  If,  when  it  is  being  washed  or  brushed,  it 
drops  on  one  side  in  that  way,  and  I  happen  to  catch 
sight  of  myself  in  the  glass,  a  sick  faintness  creeps 
through  me,  and  my  heart  is  heavy  and  cold.  It  is  as  if 
something  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  You  can  never,  never 
get  rid  of  your  old  self,  try  as  you  may.  There  she  is, 
staring  at  you  now  in  the  glass,  just  as  she  used  to  be; 
and  she'll  haunt  you  till  you  die." 

I  can't  describe  to  you  how  I  suffer  when  such  mo- 
ments come.  I  shut  my  eyes,  so  as  not  to  see  the  face, 
and  think  with  all  my  might  of  Lily  Merritt,  my  dear 
little  friend  in  the  mirrior,  a  gentle  ghost,  the  only  one 
who  ever  haunted  me  when  my  own  soul  was  white  and 
unstained. 

You  said  once  that  my  head  and  profile  would  look 
"  purely  Greek,"  if  I  wore  my  hair  in  a  knot  at  the  back 
of  my  neck ;  and  you  asked  me  to  try  it  in  that  way, 
just  once,  as  a  favor  to  you.  I  pretended  to  forget,  and 
you  reminded  me.  Perhaps  you  may  remember  still, 
though  we  had  not  known  each  other  long  then.  At 
last  I  told  you  that  I  had  worn  my  hair  in  that  fashion, 
and  disliked  it.  I  refused  to  do  it  so  again,  and  I  heard 
my  voice  growing  sharp  as  I  spoke.  I  saw  that  you 
were  surprised  and  rather  hurt,  and  I  was  unhappy  all 


To   M.  L.  G.  193 

the  rest  of  the  day,  partly  because  I  couldn't  bear  to  be 
disobliging,  and  partly  because  of  that  heavy,  secret 
reason  for  refusing,  which  I  thought  then  could  never  be 
told. 

Perhaps  if  I  had  not  done  my  best  to  look  grown  up  that 

day,  when  I  went  to  keep  the  appointment  with , 

everything  might  have  been  different  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  Yet  I  don't  know.  Maybe  it  would  have  been  the 
same,  after  all.  Sometimes  I  believe  that,  in  a  former 
incarnation,  according  to  your  spiritual  triumphs  or 
failures,  your  fate  for  a  future  incarnation  is  decided.  I 
am  trying  now  to  use  my  old  self  as  a  kind  of  mounting 
block. 

I  was  shown  at  once  to 's  office,  without  having  to 

wait.  That  was  a  great  compliment  to  an  unknown 
actress. 

A  secretary  was  with  him  when  I  arrived,  but  he  went 
out  into  another  room.  sat  behind  a  huge,  flat- 
topped  desk,  made  of  rosewood.  I  did  not  know  what 
the  wood  was,  but  I  noticed  that  it  had  a  faint,  pleasant 
scent ;  and  it  associated  itself  curiously  with  the  excited 
fluttering  of  my  heart.  Since,  I  have  disliked  that  odor 
more  than  any  other,  and  I  have  detested  rosewood. 

He  was  far  more  polite  to  me  than  any  other  theatrical 
manager  had  ever  been.  When  I  came  in  he  had  on 
a  hat,  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  large  head,  but  he  took 
it  off  deliberately,  and  laid  it  upon  a  pile  of  papers  on 
the  desk.  You  would  hardly  understand  how  much  this 
little  thing  inclined  me  to  like  him,  unless  you  know 
something  about  the  ordinary  manners  of  self-made,  im- 
portant theatrical  men  with  unimportant  actresses. 

Not  only  did take  off  his  hat  to  show  me  respect, 


194  To  M.  L.  G. 

but  he  walked  round  from  behind  the  barrier  of  the  big 
desk  and  shook  hands  heartily.  He  pressed  my  hand  in 
his,  and  held  it  in  a  warm  clasp  for  a  few  seconds.  Then 
he  placed  a  chair  for  me  to  sit  down. 

Having  done  this,  instead  of  going  back  behind  the 
desk,  he  pulled  another,  heavier  chair  near  mine,  so  as  to 
sit  facing  me,  our  knees  all  but  touching.  For  a  minute 
he  looked  me  over  smiling.  My  chair  was  turned 
towards  the  window,  so  that  the  light  fell  strongly  on 
my  face.  He  stared  at  it  so  hard,  I  was  afraid  that  there 
might  be  a  black  on  my  nose,  or  something  else  which 
spoiled  the  good  effect  I  was  anxious  to  make. 

"  Well,"  he  began,  "  have  you  been  wondering  why  I 
sent  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  admitted. 

He  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  showed  large,  yellow- 
ish teeth.  "  Honest  Injun  ?  Now,  tell  me,  didn't  you 
have  a  shrewd  suspicion  ?  " 

I  thought  it  would  be  sensible  and  pleasing  to  him  if  I 
did  not  try  to  beat  about  the  bush. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  you  might  have  some  engagement 
to  offer  me,"  I  confessed. 

"  Good  girl !  You've  hit  it  first  time,"  he  said.  He 
had  a  bluff,  good-tempered,  common  way  of  speaking, 
and  his  whole  personality  and  manner  were  vulgar. 
But  I  was  used  to  that  in  men.  Most  of  those  I  knew 
were  more  or  less  common ;  and  's  jolly  non- 
chalant commonness  suited  his  stout  body,  his  bold 
eyes,  and  red  face.  I  did  not  dislike  him  at  all,  though 
I  thought  him  old,  and  somewhat  unpleasant  to  look  at. 
His  office,  with  its  expensive  furniture  and  showy 
decorations,  was  a  good  frame  for  him.  In  a  room  of 


To   M.  L.  G.  195 

subdued  coloring,  and  refined  taste,  he  would  have  been 
like  a  big,  mottled  spider  on  a  bunch  of  violets.  The 
red  walls,  almost  covered  with  gold-framed  oil-paintings 
and  photographs  of  lovely  stage  ladies  in  tights  or  low- 
necked  dresses,  paled  the  redness  of  his  face.  The  large 
chair  of  sprawling  outlines  in  which  he  sat  seemed  to 
reduce  his  size. 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  an  engagement  with  me, 
my  dear  ?  "  he  went  on,  his  eyes  always  fixed  on  my 
face,  without  perceptibly  winking. 

An  amateur  would  have  been  startled  by  his  "  my 
dear."  But  I  knew  that  nearly  all  stage-managers,  and 
many  managers  of  theatres,  called  every  girl  "  dear." 
It  was  a  mere  habit  or  fashion,  and  meant  nothing.  It 
was  only  his  tone  which  struck  me.  He  spoke  softly,  as 
if  to  a  child. 

"  Of  course  I  would  like  it,"  I  said. 

He  bent  forward  and  looked  at  me  closely. 

"  You're  the  genuine  article,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
was  wondering  if  you  were  as  young  as  you  were 
painted." 

"  But  I'm  not  painted  ! "  I  exclaimed,  feeling  myself 
grow  red  under  his  stare. 

"  That  was  my  joke,"  he  said.  "  When  we  get  better 
acquainted,  you'll  find  out  that  I  must  have  my  joke.  I 
wasn't  going  to  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke,  you  know." 

I  considered  myself  a  quick-witted  girl,  but  I  could 
not  understand  what  he  meant.  I  was  afraid  that  he 
was  making  fun  of  me,  and  began  to  be  uncomfortable, 
even  rather  angry.  If  he  had  not  been  very  important, 
and  I  had  not  been  in  awe  of  him  and  anxious  to  please, 
I  should  have  answered  back  pertly.  As  it  was,  I  only 


196  To   M.  L.  G. 

threw  up  my  head  a  little,  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
firmly. 

"  Don't  bite  me,"  he  laughed.  "  I  see  you're  a  girl 
of  spirit.  I  must  teach  you  to  take  a  joke.  I  invited 
you  here  for  several  reasons.  One  was  to  see  if  you 
were  really  a  young  girl  or  a  grown-up  woman.  I've 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  you're  a  baby.  Now  don't 
get  mad !  I'm  paying  you  a  big  compliment.  This 
light  doesn't  leave  anything  to  the  imagination.  I 
should  put  you  down  as  seventeen,  a  little  more  or  a 
little  less.  Which  is  it  ?  " 

"A  little  less,"  I  answered,  pleased  with  him  again, 
because,  although  he  called  me  a  baby,  he  thought  me 
older  than  I  was.  Quickly  I  told  myself  that,  if  he 
knew  I  was  not  yet  sixteen,  he  would  hesitate  to  offer 
me  the  part  he  was  thinking  of.  If  I  said  "  a  little  less  " 
than  seventeen,  it  would  be  true,  and  even  if  he  found 
out  my  real  age,  he  could  not  accuse  me  of  fibbing. 

"  I  believe  you,"  he  returned,  "  though  I  wouldn't 
believe  most  girls  on  their  oath." 

Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  heard  of  me  and 
my  "  great  stunt,"  as  he  called  the  scream.  A  friend 
of  his  who  was  a  critic  had  spoken  of  me,  and  he  had 
seen  my  picture  in  the  papers.  "  Last  night  I  sat  out 
the  play,"  he  explained,  "  as  much  to  see  you  as  any- 
thing else." 

"  But  I'm  only  heard,  and  not  seen,"  I  said,  when  he 
paused. 

«  Well  —  I  saw  you  all  right,  didn't  I  ?  "  he  grinned. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  for  the  first  time  that  my 
appointment  near  the  star  dressing-room  had  been 
arranged  between  him  and  our  stage-manager.  I  had 


To   M.  L.  G.  197 

supposed  that  's  being  in  the  doorway  at  the  time 

was  a  lucky  accident,  and  that  I  owed  this  interview  to  a 
rare  chance. 

"  I'm  glad  you  saw  me,"  I  stammered,  "  if  it  makes 
you  give  me  an  engagement." 

"  Are  you  tired  of  screaming  ?  "  he  wanted  to  know. 

I  answered  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  scream  I  was 

tired  of,  as  living  with  Mrs.  F and  Fifi.  If  I  could 

get  a  better  salary,  I  was  old  enough  to  live  away  from 
them,  now. 

"  And  pretty  enough,  too,"  he  added. 

Then,  in  a  different  tone,  he  said  that  just  at  present 
he  could  not  offer  me  anything  in  New  York,  though 

later  he  might  be  able  to  do  so.  Had  I  seen  Lily 

in  the  play  running  in  his  theatre  ? 

The  question  made  my  heart  beat,  though  what  it 
suggested  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  I  answered  that 
I  had  seen  her,  just  before  I  began  my  engagement. 

"  Like  the  part  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Of  course  I  said  yes.  It  was  a  splendid  soubrette  part, 
and  Miss had  made  a  great  hit  in  it. 

"  Think  you  could  play  it  better  than  she  does, 
eh?" 

I  was  afraid  he  was  joking  again,  yet  I  replied  boldly 
that  I  was  sure  I  could  play  it  very  well. 

"  You're  young  enough  to  be  Lily's  daughter,"  he  said. 
"  But  so  much  the  better  for  you.  What  would  you  do 
for  me  if  I  let  you  have  her  part,  in  the  company  I'm 
sending  on  the  road?" 

Still  I  could  hardly  believe  in  my  luck.  My  face  must 
have  been  scarlet  as  I  stammered  out  that  I  would  do  any- 
thing. 


198  To   M.  L.  G. 

He  caught  me  up  quickly.  "  Do  you  mean  that  ?  "  he 
asked. 

There  was  no  mistaking  him,  this  time.  I  realized  that 
he  was  in  earnest.  And  I  realized  something  more,  with 
an  electric  shock,  half  of  fear,  and  half  of  silly,  childish 
vanity. 

My  youth  had  protected  me  in  many  ways  so  far,  yet 
already  I  knew,  from  things  I  had  heard  and  seen,  more 
about  the  facts  of  life  than  many  sheltered  girls  know 
when  they  are  over  twenty.  There  was  no  villainy  I  had 
not  at  least  vaguely  heard  of,  and  I  had  had  my  eyes 
opened  to  the  ways  of  certain  theatrical  managers.  No 
manager  had  ever  fixed  his  attention  on  me ;  but  I  knew 
only  too  well  that  few  plums  fell  into  the  mouths  of  un- 
known young  girls,  unless  they  paid  a  price. 

Still,  a  shiver  ran  through  me  now  that  the  strange 
grown-up  thing  which  happened  to  others  was  happen- 
ing to  me.  My  surprise  was  mixed  with  dread  and 
trembling,  physical  terror  ;  but  with  all  my  force  of  will, 
I  tried  to  keep  my  face  from  showing  any  trace  of  what 
I  felt. 

I  have  told  you  that  this  which  I  write  is  only  a  state- 
ment of  things  as  they  happened,  not  an  apology,  not  an 
appeal.  I  want  to  hide  nothing,  and  soften  nothing.  I 
won't  excuse  myself  by  reminding  you  what  my  bringing 
up  had  been,  or  the  dreary  lessons  my  experience  had 
taught  me.  Perhaps  if  my  nature  had  been  nobler,  in 
spite  of  my  life's  teachings  I  might  have  had  a  moral 
code.  As  it  was,  I  had  no  such  shield  in  battle.  I  had 
never  even  heard  of  a  "  moral  code." 

Alma  L and  a  great  many  other  sweet  women, 

more  fortunate  than  she,  were  the  mistresses  of  men  with 


To   M.  L.  G.  199 

money  and  power.  Every  one  knew  what  they  were,  and 
girls  far  below  them  on  the  theatrical  ladder  looked  up,  to 
envy  them.  Fifi,  for  instance,  often  said  that  she  intended 
to  "  catch  "  somebody  worth  having.  With  all  her  con- 
ceit and  ambition,  she  could  hardly  hope  to  marry  one  of 
the  rich  young  men  whose  names  were  often  on  her 
tongue.  It  was  something  else  to  which  she  looked  for- 
ward. Hatty  had  often  said  that,  if  she  lived  in  Europe, 
rather  than  anything  else  she  would  like  to  be  a  king's 
mistress.  The  idea  in  the  abstract  did  not  horrify  me  at 
all.  It  was  only  now  when  it  became  concrete  and  per- 
sonal, that  I  shrank.  But  my  schoolgirlish  love  for 

Cyril  R had  turned  into  such  supreme  disgust,  that 

I  felt  it  would  be  impossible  ever  to  love  another  man. 
I  believed  what  older  girls  said,  that  men  were  all  alike 
at  heart.  The  only  difference  was  that  some  were  richer, 
younger,  and  better-looking  than  others.  As  I  told  you 
before,  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  because  of  Alma's 
tragedy,  that  I  would  "  use  men  and  not  be  used  by 
them."  Often,  since  leaving  her  to  her  fate,  I  had 
repeated  those  words  to  myself,  and  to  my  friend  Hatty. 
I  was  proud  of  a  resolve  which  made  me  feel  cynical,  and 
like  a  grown-up  woman  of  the  world.  Now,  after  the 
first  shock  of  reading  's  full  meaning,  my  chief  re- 
gret was  that  my  "  chance  "  came  from  a  fat,  middle-aged 
man,  with  a  red  face  and  a  double  chin.  If  he  had  been 
young  and  handsome,  like  some  of  the  stars  who  made 
life  easy  for  their  leading  ladies,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
would  not  so  much  have  minded  the  rest. 

Still,  I  took  myself  almost  fiercely  to  task,  and  tried  to 

be  what  Mrs.  F would  call  "  sensible."     This  was 

an  incredible  piece  of  luck  for  me,  I  said  to  my  trem- 


200  To   M.  L.  G. 

bling  heart,  and  I  should  be  worse  than  a  fool  to  throw  it 
away. 

Only  a  few  seconds  did  I  hesitate.  Then  I  answered 
firmly  that  I  quite  meant  what  I  had  said.  I  would  do 
anything  for  him,  if  he  would  give  me  Miss 's  part. 

As  I  spoke kept  his  light  eyes  fixed  on  me. 

He  was  trying  to  be  sure  that  I  understood. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  you're  a  good  girl  to  me, 
you  shall  have  the  part,  and  plenty  of  other  nice  things 
beside.  All  your  friends  will  envy  you." 

I  muttered  that  I  was  sure  they  would. 

He  got  up  heavily  from  his  chair,  and  I  rose  from  mine. 
When  he  put  out  his  hand,  I  laid  my  fingers  in  his  big 
palm,  reluctantly.  He  pulled  me  nearer  to  him. 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  and  have  a  nice,  quiet  little 
dinner  with  me  next  Sunday  evening  at  a  place  a  friend 
of  mine  lends  me  when  I  want  to  entertain  ?  "  he  asked. 

It  was  already  Friday.  I  was  more  frightened  than  I 
had  ever  been,  and  felt  that  I  would  not  at  all  like  to  dine 
with  him.  But  I  knew,  if  I  refused,  it  was  the  end  of 
everything.  He  was  watching  me  without  winking,  to 
see  how  I  took  the  invitation.  My  mouth  suddenly  felt 
parched,  but  I  answered  steadily  that  I  would  go. 

"  That's  right !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I'll  give  you  a  jolly 
good  dinner.  A  princess  couldn't  have  a  better  one  than 
you'll  get  with  me,  little  girl.  Come  at  a  quarter  to  eight. 
I'll  have  a  contract  in  my  pocket  for  you  to  sign,  if  you're 
of  the  same  mind  you  are  now." 

He  mentioned  a  number  in  an  old-fashioned  square, 
rather  far  down-town,  where  artists  and  literary  people 
lived.  He  made  me  repeat  the  address,  to  be  sure  I  un- 
derstood and  would  not  forget. 


To  M.  L.  G.  201 

"  I  wouldn't  speak  about  this  dinner  to  any  of  your 

friends,  if  I  were  you,  my  dear,"  said.  "  Most 

women  are  cats.  They'd  be  jealous,  and  scratch." 

"  I  won't  say  a  word  to  any  one,"  I  assured  him.  And 
I  was  only  too  glad  to  keep  my  promise. 

"  You're  a  wise  child,  that  knows  when  it's  in  luck," 
he  chuckled.  Then  he  drew  me  to  him,  and  taking  my 
chin  in  one  of  his  fat  hands  kissed  me  on  the  mouth. 

I  felt  a  wild  impulse  of  anger,  almost  murderous.  I 
longed  to  push  him  violently  from  me,  and  run  away. 

But  I  said  to  myself,  "  No  —  no  !  Remember  Mrs.  F 

and  Fifi.  Remember  all  your  good  resolutions." 

"  Good  resolutions  !  "  Those  were  the  words  I  used 
to  steel  myself  against  what  seemed  my  weakness. 

When  he  let  me  go,  I  hurried  out  of  the  room.  Yet  I 
went  with  my  head  up,  smiling.  I  think,  if  I  had  had  a 
mother  who  loved  me,  perhaps  her  heart  would  have 
ached  at  that  smile. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FRIDAY  and  Saturday  nights  I  could  not  sleep  at 
all;  and  by  day  I  could  not  rest.  I  was  burning 
with  fever ;  but  I  should  be  deceiving  you  if  I 
said  that  I  was  utterly  miserable.  I  was  more  excited 
than  I  had  ever  been,  so  excited  that  I  had  attacks  of 
giddiness,  and  went  from  hot  to  cold  and  back  again,  in 
a  moment.  It  was  the  kind  of  excitement  I  think  one 
might  feel  in  a  house  on  fire,  if  one  were  not  sure 
whether  one  would  be  burnt  alive,  or  find  a  chest  full  of 
pearls  and  diamonds.  If  I  forgot  for  an  instant  the 
mysterious  horror  before  me,  I  would  remember  again 
with  a  shock,  as  if  cold,  and  boiling,  water  had  been 
thrown  over  me  by  turns.  I  seemed  to  feel  each  separate 
nerve  in  my  body  being  pulled  by  little  strings.  Then 
heavy  moods,  when  nothing  mattered,  weighed  me 
down ;  and  I  would  break  out  of  them  like  a  butterfly 
out  of  the  chrysalis,  with  a  sensation  of  delirious 
triumph,  longing  to  sing  and  dance,  and  tell  Fifi  things 
that  would  make  her  madly  jealous. 

Nobody  at  Mrs.  F 's  ever  asked  any  embarrassing 

questions.     One  went  and  came  at  that  house  as  one 
chose.     I  was  not  afraid  of  being  found  out. 

The  address  which had  given  me  was  the  top 

flat  of  a  beautiful  old  house,  once  a  grand  mansion,  now 
converted  into  apartments. 

I  arrived  promptly  at  a  quarter  to  eight.  A  black 
man,  with  one  blind  white  eye,  and  thick  gray  hair, 
opened  the  door  for  me. 

202 


To  M.  L.  G.  203 

I  entered  a  plain  hall  with  only  a  few  engravings  in 
dark  frames  on  a  green  distempered  wall ;  but  I  had 
never  seen  anything  so  wonderful  as  the  room  into  which 
the  negro  showed  me.  I  thought  it  was  like  a  room  in 
the  palace  of  some  sultan  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  It 
was  lit  by  a  soft  pink  light,  and  I  had  a  dazzled  impres- 
sion of  rose  brocade  glittering  with  gold  threads,  faintly 
tinted  rugs  which  seemed  to  have  on  them  the  bloom  of 
a  peach  or  the  delicate  pale  down  of  a  "  pussy  willow." 
There  were  great  divans,  half  covered  with  silk  draperies, 
and  piled  with  gold-embroidered  crimson  or  purple 
cushions.  All  the  doors  were  hung  with  curtains  that 
sparkled  with  bright  points  like  sequins.  In  front  of  one 
long  divan  was  a  low  table,  with  a  lace  cover,  laid  with 
gold  knives  and  forks  and  spoons.  In  the  rosy  light  the 
sparkling  glass  and  china  were  of  fairylike  beauty  in  my 
eyes.  And  the  lilies  and  roses,  scattered  among  hot- 
house fruit  on  the  table,  sent  out  such  an  overpowering 
fragrance  that  I  felt  deliciously  faint  with  their  sweetness. 
There  was  a  perfume,  too,  of  pastilles  burning,  and  a 
bluish  haze  of  their  smoke  floated  half-way  between  floor 
and  ceiling,  like  torn  rags  of  pale  chiffon. 

came  to  meet  me.  He  wore  a  Turkish  smok- 
ing jacket  of  embroidered,  gold-colored  silk,  and  with 
his  big  red  face  and  fat  body  he  looked  grotesque  in  his 
beautiful  surroundings.  I  could  have  laughed  if  I  had 
not  been  cold  to  the  heart  with  dread.  But  he  was  kind, 
and  reassured  me  a  little.  He  did  not  kiss  me,  as  I  had 
been  afraid  he  would.  He  only  lifted  my  hands  to  his 
lips,  and  seeing  that  I  had  on  short  gloves,  pressed  his 
mouth  first  to  one  wrist,  and  then  the  other.  He 
thanked  me  for  coming,  and  was  quite  gallant  and  gay. 


204  To  M-  L-  G- 

I  must  go  into  the  next  room  and  take  off  my  hat,  he 
said,  and  went  on  to  explain  that  these  were  bachelor's 
quarters ;  counting  the  kitchen,  only  three  rooms  and  a 
bath,  but  good  of  their  kind.  He  pushed  aside  a 
portiere,  and  I  saw  a  wonderful  bedroom,  far  more  beau- 
tiful than  Madame's.  It  was  not  Oriental  like  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  but  French.  The  walls  were  of  white  satin, 
•with  panel  paintings  of  nymphs  bathing  in  the  sea,  and 
sleeping  in  flowery  forests.  Between  the  windows  was 
an  enormous  looking-glass,  and  through  an  open  door  I 
could  see  a  bathroom,  whose  walls  seemed  to  be  all 
mirror. 

said  that  he  liked  to  dine  in  Eastern  fashion, 

reclining  on  a  divan.  That  was  why  he  wore  a  Turkish 
jacket,  in  order  to  be  more  in  keeping  with  the  room. 
When  he  explained  this,  he  laughed  uneasily,  and  seemed 
half  afraid  that  I  might  think  it  funny,  for  he  was  sensi- 
tive about  his  looks.  He  appeared  relieved  when  I  did 
not  smile.  Coming  into  the  room  with  me,  he  opened 
one  of  the  painted  panels.  There  was  a  wardrobe  or 
closet  behind  it,  in  which  four  or  five  lovely  Oriental 
dressing-gowns  were  hanging  up.  On  the  floor  I  noticed 
several  small  pairs  of  silk  or  satin  bedroom  slippers, 
standing  in  a  neat,  straight  row.  They  were  of  different 
colors,  with  very  high  heels,  and  I  was  curious  about 
them.  A  strong,  heavy  perfume  hung  over  everything, 
and  came  out  in  a  cloud.  It  reminded  me  of  the  good 
smells  in  Madame's  workroom,  and  made  me  feel  home- 
sick, and  young. 

said  that  there  were  plenty  more  pretty  things, 

but  I  would  have  no  time  to  look  at  them  now,  as  dinner 
would  be  ready  at  eight.  He  had  asked  me  to  come  a 


To   M.  L.  G.  205 

quarter  of  an  hour  earlier,  so  that  I  might  put  on  one  of 
the  Oriental  gowns,  and  be  comfortable,  reclining  on  a 
divan,  to  dine.  "  I've  got  that  contract  for  you,"  he 
said,  tapping  his  breast.  "  You'll  see,  I  never  forget 
anything." 

I  thought  that  he  reminded  me  of  the  contract  just 
then  to  make  me  more  willing  to  obey  him  about  chang- 
ing my  frock.  I  put  on  a  rose-colored  silk  gown,  which 
I  admired  so  much  that  I  almost  forgot  to  be  frightened, 
for  a  moment.  But  soon  the  cold,  mysterious  fear  crawled 
back,  like  a  wet  snake. 

There  were  splendid  things  to  eat  for  dinner.  Best 
of  all  I  liked  the  salted  almonds,  for  I  had  never  tasted 
any  before.  I  had  no  appetite  at  first,  but  the  wine 

cheered  and  warmed  me.  talked  a  good  deal, 

and  told  me  anecdotes  about  horses  of  his,  which  had 
won  races,  and  successful  people  whom  he  had  put  on 
the  stage.  There  was  champagne,  which  tasted  cold 
and  delicious  when  it  came  out  of  its  gilded  ice-pail,  yet 
drinking  it  sent  a  tingling  heat  through  my  veins. 

kept  filling  up  my  glass,  again  and  again,  telling 

me  that  the  "  fizz "  would  do  me  good.  I  had  never 
drunk  any  champagne  before,  nor  have  I  since  then.  I 
can  hardly  bear  to  see  it  foaming  in  some  one  else's 

glass.  When  it  was  time  for  the  fruit,  ordered 

his  black  servant  not  to  come  back  unless  he  called. 
The  man  went  out  and  shut  the  door  softly.  My  blood 
had  felt  as  if  it  were  foaming  like  the  champagne,  but 
suddenly  the  exhilarating  sparkle  ceased,  as  if  the  tap  of 
a  syphon  had  been  quickly  turned  off. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THREE  times  I  have  rewritten  this  part  which 
begins  now.  When  I  finished  it  first,  and  read 
it  over,  I  thought  I  had  been  too  kind  to  my- 
self in  what  I  said.  Without  meaning  to  do  so,  I  had 
made  excuses.  I  had  explained  what  I  did  and  what  I 
felt ;  and  trying  to  judge  my  statement  fairly,  as  if  I  were 
an  outsider,  I  realized,  in  reading  it,  that  I  had  uncon- 
sciously made  a  bid  for  sympathy. 

That  is  not  what  I  wanted  to  do,  or  started  out  to  do. 
I  began  again,  and  rewrote  a  great  many  pages.  Then, 
when  I  read  them,  they  were  too  brutal.  I  was  not  the 
girl  I  saw  there.  In  reading  those  new  pages,  I  was 
looking  at  the  picture  of  a  repulsive  stranger  whom  I 
had  never  known.  I  felt  that,  if  it  would  be  wrong  to 
draw  too  favorable  a  portrait,  it  would  be  as  wrong 
to  libel  the  wretched  child  I  was.  From  the  beginning 
I  have  aimed  at  keeping  all  emotion  out  of  what  I  wrote  : 
to  be  my  own  judge,  not  my  own  advocate.  But  a  just 
judge. 

I  did  not  know,  when  I  began  to  write  this  long  state- 
ment for  you,  how  hard  it  would  be  to  do  the  work 
fairly.  I  thought  I  knew,  but  I  did  not.  All  the  first 
part  was  comparatively  easy.  The  memories  of  my 
childhood  rushed  back  to  me.  I  wrote  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  faces  and  old  impressions,  bright  and  lifelike 
against  a  dark  background,  as  the  headlights  of  a  motor 
cut  out  the  near  trees  and  houses,  clear  against  dead  dark- 

206 


To   M.  L.  G.  207 

ness  like  black  velvet.  It  was  a  relief,  almost  a  pleasure, 
to  write  down  everything  as  it  flashed  back  into  my 
brain.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  busy  building  a  bridge  across 
the  gulf  of  distance  and  separation.  I  seemed  to  be 
talking  to  you.  I  saw  your  eyes  looking  at  me,  full  of 
kindness.  The  work  renewed  my  interest  in  life,  and 
gave  me  peace  after  the  restless  agony  of  letting  you  go. 

I  was  very  nearly  happy  in  my  writing,  until  I  had 
got  as  far  as  leaving  Madame.  Until  then,  I  had  seen 
myself  like  a  little  boat  drifting  on  a  stormy  sea,  and 
it  was  not  the  boat's  fault  if  it  gathered  barnacles,  and 
tangles  of  seaweed,  or  grazed  its  bow  against  sharp 
rocks.  When  I  began  to  write  about  my  life  at  Mrs. 

F 's,  and  about  going  on  my  first  tour,  I  found  my 

work  suddenly  more  difficult.  Some  impish  intelligence 
had  come  to  guide  the  little  drifting  boat,  and  was 
guiding  it  all  wrong.  Because  I  had  to  write  the  story 
of  a  girl,  no  longer  a  child,  beginning  to  grow  up,  the 
task  grew  more  complicated.  I  found  myself  stopping 
to  think,  and  asking  anxiously,  "  How  shall  I  say  this  ? 
Am  I  laying  too  much  stress  on  that  ?  Am  I  describing 
this  coarsely  ?  Am  I  putting  in  too  much,  or  leaving 
too  much  out  ?  " 

Besides,  I  was  surprised  to  find  a  great  many  later 
impressions  not  so  clear  as  the  childish  ones.  Though 
they  are  nearer  in  time,  truly  they  do  not  seem  as 
much  a  part  of  me  as  the  memories  of  older  days,  when 
I  was  a  very  little  girl.  The  child  I  was  before  leaving 
Madame  I  understand,  and  remember  with  a  kind  of 

dreamy  tenderness.  The  girl  I  became  at  Mrs.  F 's 

is  almost  a  stranger  to  me  now.  And  in  writing  about 
her,  I  have  found  that  it  is  as  if  the  girl  knew  this,  and 


208  To   M.  L.  G. 

would  not  come  near  me  to  explain  herself,  thus  forc- 
ing me  to  write  down,  as  my  own,  second-hand  impres- 
sions. 

It  is  not  like  that  with  the  great  things,  good  or  bad, 
which  moulded  me.  They  stand  out  with  a  frightening 
vividness.  And  in  reading  over  what  I  have  written,  it 
seems  to  me  that  this  peculiar  state  of  mind  betrays  itself 
in  the  descriptions. 

It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  so  difficult,  so  all  but 
impossible,  to  write  the  truth  about  oneself.  If  any  one 
had  told  me  it  would  be  so,  even  after  I  had  begun, 
I  would  not  have  believed.  I  should  have  said,  "  It  is 
only  too  easy."  I  remembered  all  I  felt  and  did  in  the 
old  boarding-houses,  at  Touey's,  and  at  Madame's ;  all 
my  surroundings  just  as  they  were,  and  as  they  affected 

me.  But  on  going  to  Mrs.  F 's  it  was  as  though  a 

curtain  had  gone  down  on  the  first  act  of  a  play,  and 
for  some  reason  there  was  a  long,  irritating  wait  before 
the  next  act  —  a  wait  that  depressed  the  spirits  of  the 
actors. 

I  thought,  as  I  went  on  with  my  writing,  that  I  was 
telling  the  whole  truth  about  myself,  just  as  I  had  at  the 
beginning,  and  perhaps  I  succeeded  more  or  less,  after 
many  efforts,  up  to  the  asterisks  which  I  have  only  now 
put  at  the  end  of  what  I  may  call  an  episode. 

At  first,  I  did  not  let  it  end  there.  I  went  on,  as 
best  I  could.  But,  as  I  have  just  told  you,  I  could  not 
let  what  I  wrote  stand.  Even  now,  in  beginning  again, 
I  may  do  no  better  than  before ;  yet,  if  not,  this  ex- 
planation in  the  midst  may  show  you  why  I  stumble 
and  make  mistakes.  I  try  to  tell  the  truth.  But  — 
what  is  the  truth  about  oneself  ?  Can  one  know  — 


To   M.  L.  G.  209 

even  in  the  depths  of  one's  own  heart,  where  nobody 
else  ever  sees  —  can  one  know  exactly  why  certain 
things  were  done  in  the  past  —  the  past  of  years  ago, 
or  yesterday  —  or  what  one's  real  feelings  were  ?  Is  a 
woman  able  to  judge  her  own  soul,  or  can  God  alone  do 
that? 

Forgive  all  this.  It  is  the  only  part  I  shall  ask  you 
to  forgive.  As  I  have  gone  on,  unrolling  the  past 
before  my  own  eyes,  I  have  seemed  to  see  your  eyes 
looking  at  me  more  and  more  coldly.  I  see  that,  if  I 
were  a  man,  I  could  not  forgive  a  woman  such  mistakes 
as  mine ;  that  if  I  were  a  man,  in  my  eyes  nothing 
could  wash  her  clean.  I  have  not  the  same  faint  hope 
now,  in  writing  on,  that  I  had  when  I  began. 

In  the  part  I  have  destroyed,  I  told  you  things  that 
I  think  were  unnecessary  to  tell.  But  I  am  still  all  at 
sea.  Whether  it  is  better  just  to  be  laconic,  and  men- 
tion events,  or  try  to  make  you  see  how  I  felt  about 
them  ?  Already  I  have  tried  both  ways,  and  neither 
seems  right. 

Perhaps  one  great  difficulty  I  have  is  that,  in  justice 
to  you,  I  cannot  tell  my  story  as  romances  can  be  told. 
In  fiction,  years  can  be  left  out,  or  slurred  over  in  a 
few  words.  Above  all  others,  I  must  not  leave  the  bad 
things  out ;  and  if  I  were  to  be  "  artistic,"  I  should  have 
to  lie.  Until  I  went  to  Italy,  there  was  nothing  artistic 
in  my  life.  Almost  every  note  in  it  was  wrong,  except 
the  part  which  concerned  the  actress  side  of  me,  and 
that  is  the  side  of  which  there  is  least  need  for  me  to- 

tell  you. 

****** 

When  I  went  back  to  Mrs.  F 's,  I  had  the  signed 


210  To   M.  L.  G. 

contract  which  had  been  promised,  but  I  said  not  a  word 
of  it  to  any  one  that  day. 

I  told  Mrs.  F and  Fifi  a  falsehood  :  that  I  had 

spent  Sunday  night  with  Hatty,  at  her  boarding-house. 
But  they  hardly  listened.  I  might  as  well  not  have 
troubled  to  make  up  the  story.  If  I  had  blurted  out 
the  truth,  they  would  have  been,  not  disgusted,  but 
jealous.  Or  else  they  would  have  believed  that  I  was 
"  boasting." 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  that  I  was  desperately  miser- 
able and  remorseful;  but  I  was  neither.  I  was  not 
quite  happy  —  that  was  all.  There  was  a  black  spot  of 
decay  on  the  fruit  which  I  had  hoped  would  be  golden, 
but  the  spot  did  not  spoil  the  fruit.  I  wished  that  life 
were  different,  not  that  I  were  different. 

On  Tuesday,  I  showed  my  contract  to  Mrs.  F , 

and  told  her,  vaguely,  how  I  had  received  a  note  from 

at  the  theatre,  asking  me  to  call  on  him.  I  gave 

her  the  impression  that  everything  had  happened  in  one 
day,  even  the  signing  of  the  contract ;  and  she  and  Fifi 
were  so  angry  because  such  a  wonderful  plum  had  fallen 
into  my  hand,  that  they  did  not  stop  to  think  of  dis- 
crepancies. They  could  scarcely  believe  that  I  was  to 
have  Lily 's  part ;  and,  at  first,  Mrs.  F was  in- 
clined to  the  opinion  that  I  was  hoaxing  them. 

I  am  afraid  that  I  was  mean  enough  to  take  the  most 
intense  delight  in  Fifi's  jealousy.  I  felt  that  at  last  I  was 
able  to  punish  her  with  one  blow  for  a  thousand  slights. 

Some  clauses  in  the  contract  made  Mrs.  F guess 

I  had  not  told  her  everything,  and  she  spared  me  none  of 
her  suspicions.  But  I  had  learned  too  many  lessons 
from  her  and  Fifi  not  to  know  how  to  answer. 


To   M.  L.  G.  211 

I  had  meant  to  leave  the  flat  immediately,  for  I  was  to 
be  paid  for  rehearsals,  and  even  if  I  had  no  other  expecta- 
tions, I  could  have  afforded  to  make  my  own  life.  But  I 
punished  Mrs.  F still  further  by  pretending  to  go  be- 
cause of  her  insinuations.  "  I  will  tell  Mr. the 

horrid  things  you've  said  to  me,"  I  threatened  ;  and  she 

tried  to  take  back  her  words,  for  she  was  afraid  of 

for  Fifi's  sake  and  her  own.  She  even  begged  me  to 
stay,  knowing,  now  that  I  was  nearly  sixteen,  it  would  be 
useless  to  wire  an  appeal  to  the  Baroness ;  but  I  was  not 
to  be  persuaded.  I  packed  my  few  belongings,  and  left 
within  the  hour,  in  a  whirlwind  of  virtuous  indignation, 
which  may  not  have  impressed  her  as  much  as  it  pleased 
me. 

I  went  to  a  small  private  hotel,  the  address  of  which 

gave  me.  Coming  from  Mrs.  F 's,  the  place 

seemed  luxurious.  I  was  enraptured  at  being  installed  in 
a  little  suite  of  my  own,  with  a  tiny  sitting-room  as  well 
as  bedroom,  and,  best  of  all,  a  bath.  I  had  never  ad- 
mired anything  as  much  since  I  was  torn  away  from 
Madame's  dainty  house ;  and  this  was  all  my  own.  If  I 
had  anything  to  regret,  I  forgot  it  in  gazing  at  that  little 
white  bathroom,  which  I  loved  as  I  would  have  loved  the 
doll's  house  I  had  always  wanted,  but  never  had,  as  a 
child.  I  walked  back  and  forth,  from  room  to  room, 
revelling  in  all  three;  but  I  would  have  sacrificed  both  the 
others,  if  necessary,  to  keep  the  bath. 

I  did  not  think  of  myself  as  a  bad  girl,  because  I  was 
to  live  in  that  suite,  though  I  had  no  money  of  my  own 
to  pay  for  it  and  other  luxuries  I  expected  to  have.  I 
thought :  "  Now,  at  last,  I  am  going  to  have  lovely 
things,  and  be  dainty  and  sweet.  I  can  take  two  baths  a 


212  To   M.  L.  G. 

day  if  I  like,  or  even  three ;  and  there  will  be  nobody  to 
nag  and  be  hateful."  It  seemed  almost  a  virtue,  to  be  so 
glad  of  the  sweetness  and  cleanliness  and  beauty  that 
would  be  mine.  It  is  dreadful  to  tell  you  that  I  was 
really  happy,  at  least  by  day.  Sometimes  there  were  aw- 
ful hours  at  night  when  I  could  not  sleep,  when  I  hated 
myself,  and  cried  hysterically,  not  daring  to  think  of  the 
future.  Then  it  was  as  if  I  saw  the  face  of  a  hideous, 
giant  negro,  growing  out  of  a  small  floating  black  spot 
on  the  wall,  and  coming  slowly  nearer  and  nearer  to  me, 
like  a  dream  that  had  been  my  greatest  horror  in  child- 
hood. I  used  often  to  dream  it,  always  the  same ;  and 
now  the  dream  seemed  to  have  come  true.  But  I  shut 
up  my  fear  in  the  locked  cupboard  of  the  night,  and 
scarcely  thought  of  it  in  the  daytime. 

The  rehearsals  took  hold  of  me,  and  I  gave  my  whole 
self  to  the  new  part.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  good 
or  bad  for  me  to  have  that  great  interest  just  then,  for,  by 
day,  it  made  everything  else  seem  small,  just  as  you  can 
shut  out  the  sight  of  mountains  with  the  palm  of  your 
hand,  if  you  hold  it  close  before  your  eyes.  If  a  dark 
thought  did  loom  over  my  horizon,  I  shut  it  out  like 
that,  with  my  hand,  saying  to  myself,  "  You're  going 
to  be  an  actress,  a  great  actress,  and  nothing  else  matters. 
You  had  to  grow  up  and  be  a  woman,  somehow,  before 
you  could  hope  to  act." 

So  I  forced  myself  to  be  happy,  in  spite  of  some 
things,  and  because  of  others  ;  but  my  happiness  was 
very  different  from  the  happiness  of  last  year.  Then 
when  I  travelled  in  the  road  company,  with  Julia  and 
Kitty,  I  was  gay  and  sunny  all  through,  like  a  fountain 
with  the  sun  shining  down  to  its  depths,  leaving  no  dark 


To   M.  L.  G.  213 

corners.  Now  the  sun  shone  only  on  the  surface ;  but  it 
shone  brightly  there,  bright  as  the  new  diamond  ring 
which gave  me  one  day. 

When  I  was  small,  I  used  to  think  I  should  be  per- 
fectly happy  if  I  had  a  diamond  ring  of  my  own  like 
Dearie's  and  Madame's,  but  it  did  not  seem  possible 
that  I  should  ever  have  one.  I  would  say  to  myself, 
"  Perhaps  by  the  time  I  am  twenty  I  shall  have  saved  up 
enough  money  to  buy  a  diamond  ring,"  for  twenty 
seemed  a  great  age,  when  one  ought  to  have  money  and 
rings,  if  ever.  Yet  here  I  was  at  sixteen  with  a  far  more 
splendid  diamond  than  Dearie  had  ever  owned,  or  any 
one  else  I  had  ever  seen.  , 

It  was  given  to  me  for  a  surprise.  I  opened  a  white 
leather  case,  lined  with  velvet,  and  the  ring  sent  a  blue 
lightning  streak  up  to  my  eyes.  It  was  a  wonderful  mo- 
ment, and  for  months  afterwards  I  never  tired  of  watch- 
ing the  lights  come  and  go  in  that  stone,  and  other  stones 
which  came  to  keep  it  company.  I,  who  had  never  had 
a  ring  or  any  jewellery,  was  intoxicated  with  the  beauty 
of  my  diamonds  and  rubies  and  emeralds.  Whenever  I 
knew  that  I  was  to  receive  a  present,  I  wanted  it  to  be  a 
ring.  I  could  not  have  too  many,  for  it  gave  me  the 
most  intense  pleasure  to  turn  my  hands  back  and  forth, 
or  twist  my  rings  to  watch  the  colors  come  and  go.  At 
last,  I  wore  several  rings  on  each  finger ;  and  I  spent  an 
hour  each  day  manicuring  my  nails,  making  them  glitter 
like  wet  coral,  and  staining  my  finger  tips  rose-pink,  so 
as  to  set  off  the  rings  with  an  effective  background. 

I  was  exactly  like  a  child  let  loose  in  a  toy-shop  and 
told  that  it  may  take  whatever  it  chooses.  I  could  have 
everything  I  wanted,  but  I  did  not  know  what  to  want, 


214  TO  M-  L-  G- 


for  I  was  a  poor  child  who  had  never  possessed  anything, 
and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  always  Christmas. 

When  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  before  Boy  and  Dearie 
came  back,  a  kind  young  actress,  who  played  with  me 
sometimes,  took  me  to  a  big  shop  to  see  a  Christmas 
"  bazaar,"  as  she  called  it.  There  was  a  fat,  red-faced 
man  dressed  up  as  Santa  Claus,  with  a  pack  on  his  back, 
and  out  of  this  pack  he  gave  each  child,  whose  mother 
had  spent  a  certain  amount  of  money,  some  little  toy. 
A  few  children,  whose  mothers  or  companions  could 
prove  by  coupons  that  they  had  spent  twice  or  thrice 
the  stipulated  amount,  got  two  or  three  presents.  I  had 
only  one,  a  tiny  gilt  watch,  but  it  was  an  event  in  my 
life.  I  was  afraid  at  first  to  go  up  to  Santa  Claus  and 
take  the  watch  from  his  hand  when  he  dangled  it,  be- 
cause he  was  so  fat  and  red,  but  my  actress  friend  who 
had  the  coupon  laughed,  and  made  me  go.  The  great 
bearded  Santa  Claus  laughed  too,  with  large  yellow  teeth, 
and  just  as  he  put  the  watch  into  my  hand,  bent  down 
suddenly  and  kissed  me. 

Now  that  -  had  begun  to  give  me  presents,  I 
could  not  push  the  thought  of  the  fat  Santa  Claus  in  the 
Christmas  bazaar  out  of  my  head.  Sometimes  it  almost 
seemed  that  -  and  he  must  be  one  and  the  same 
person.  -  was  the  master  of  the  toy-shop  in  which 
I  was  playing,  and  I  could  run  about  and  take  what  I 
liked  in  it;  but  he  was  always  there,  with  his  large 
yellow  teeth,  and  his  fat  red  neck  that  had  wrinkles  in 
the  back  of  it,  above  the  low  collar. 

It  was  so  new  to  me  to  have  money,  that  a  rage  of 
spending  came  upon  me.  I  bought  things  just  for  the 
wild  joy  of  buying.  I  ordered  lovely  underlinen,  all  lace 


To   M.  L.  G.  215 

and  delicate  embroidery,  more  things  than  I  could  wear. 
I  had  quantities  of  different  perfumes  sent  home,  and 
emptied  a  bottleful  at  a  time  into  my  bath.  I  bought  a 
great  many  hats,  in  which  I  admired  myself  passionately 
at  the  milliner's,  but  often  found  unbecoming  when  I 
tried  them  on  again,  at  home. 

was  giving  me  all  my  costumes  for  the  new 

part.  My  extravagances  seemed  to  amuse  him,  and  I 
amused  him,  too,  as  if  I  were  a  new  type  of  girlhood. 
But  most  of  my  time  was  taken  up  with  rehearsals,  and 
he,  too,  was  very  busy,  arranging  business  which  con- 
cerned different  productions.  I  was  secretly  thankful 
that  he  was  not  able  to  see  me  often. 

Over  the  mantelpiece  in  my  bedroom  was  an  engrav- 
ing of  an  old  picture,  called  "  The  Maiden's  Prayer." 
How  it  came  to  be  in  a  room  of  that  hotel  I  never 
knew,  and  I  wished  it  away,  but  I  had  not  the  courage 
to  ask  that  it  might  be  taken  down  and  something  mod- 
ern and  more  lively  hung  up  in  its  place. 

It  was  in  an  elaborate  gold  frame,  which  matched 
those  on  other  pictures  of  a  very  different  kind,  and  the 
face  of  the  praying  girl  and  the  title  printed  underneath 
haunted  me  curiously.  When  I  went  to  bed  without 
saying  my  prayers  (as  I  always  did  nowadays)  I  would 
see  the  upturned  eyes  and  clasped  hands,  as  if  they  were 
photographed  on  the  inner  side  of  my  tightly  closed  lids. 
I  would  see  the  name  of  the  picture,  too,  in  large,  star- 
ing letters,  larger  than  they  really  were :  "  The  Maiden's 
Prayer." 

I  did  not  feel  wicked,  except,  as  I  told  you,  sometimes 
in  black  night-moments,  when  I  was  a  lost  soul,  drown- 
ing in  dark  waters,  or  the  giant  head  was  growing  out  of 


216  To   M.  L.  G. 

the  floating  spot  on  the  wall ;  but  I  realized  doggedly 
that  I  could  not  pray,  and  ought  not  to  pray,  because  it 
would  be  sacrilege.  It  was  not  that  word  which  was  in 
my  mind,  for  probably  I  had  never  heard  it ;  but  the 
idea  was  there.  I  said  to  myself  that  it  did  not  matter, 
for  probably  there  was  no  God  to  pray  to,  and  there  was 

nothing  at  all  after  this  life.     I  knew  that  also 

had  this  theory.  One  night  he  became  confidential.  In 
telling  me  anecdotes  of  his  past,  his  business  struggles 
and  successes,  he  mentioned  incidentally  that  he  did  not 
believe  in  God,  or  any  heaven  or  hell.  Sometimes  I 
preferred  to  think  that  he  was  right.  At  other  times  not 
to  believe  in  God  or  anything  good  after  this  world,  was 
like  being  alone  in  a  universe  where  every  other  living 
thing  except  myself  had  been  destroyed. 

Once  in  a  while,  I  thought  of  Alma,  with  grief  and 
pity,  and  longing;  but  I  compared  myself  with  her, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  far,  far  wiser  than  she 
had  been.  Two  or  three  of  the  young  men  who  were 
going  out  with  the  company  were  very  attractive  and 
pleasant.  They  would  have  liked  to  flirt,  partly  be- 
cause I  was  the  girl  of  most  importance  in  the  cast, 
and  partly,  perhaps,  because  of  the  danger  they  must 
have  guessed  they  ran  in  paying  marked  attention  to 
me.  The  star,  too,  though  not  young,  was  handsome, 
and  considered  fascinating  ;  but  I  cared  nothing  for  any 
of  them.  I  felt  that  I  was  being  worldly  wise,  and  that 
I  was  keeping  the  vow  I  had  made  after  the  sad  ending 
of  Alma's  tour :  the  vow  to  use  men,  and  never  let 
myself  be  used  by  them.  I  saw  myself  as  a  woman  of 
the  world,  a  woman  grown  up.  Yet  all  the  more,  for 
that  reason,  I  was  in  reality  a  child.  A  woman  does  not 


To   M.  L.  G.  217 

waste  any  thoughts  upon  the  wonder  she  has  achieved 
in  becoming  a  woman.  But  I  was  a  child,  playing  a 
game  of  being  grown  up  —  a  horrible  game. 

I  saw  only  once  a  week,  except  occasionally 

at  the  theatre,  while  the  rehearsals  went  on  in  New 
York.  For  some  reason,  which  I  did  not  understand 
then,  he  was  very  anxious  to  be  prudent,  very  much 
afraid  of  any  talk  about  us.  He  impressed  it  upon  me 
that  all  his  precautions  were  for  my  sake.  But  I  grew 
to  hate,  with  a  deadly  hatred,  the  beautiful  flat  with 
Oriental  decorations,  which  I  had  thought  of  at  first  as  a 

palace  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  It  belonged  to , 

not  to  a  friend,  as  he  had  told  me  in  the  beginning, 
and  it  was  a  secret  haunt  of  his,  where  he  never  brought 
even  his  most  intimate  men  friends.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  admire  Eastern  draperies  or  embroideries  since 
then. 

I  used  to  indulge  myself  ungratefully  at  moments 

when  I  most  disliked  by  calling  him  "  Santa 

Glaus  "  to  myself.  I  would  count  the  days  before  leav- 
ing New  York,  and  say,  thankfully,  "  After  that,  no 
more  Santa  Claus  ! " 

But  soon  I  found  out  that  my  hopes  were  mistaken. 
He  was  interested  in  several  theatres  along  our  route, 
and  my  heart  sank  at  the  news  that  he  intended  to  run 
out  and  see  me  there. 

It  was  after  we  had  started  on  the  road  that  the 
mystery  of  his  prudence  "  for  my  sake,"  in  New  York, 
was  explained,  for  the  people  in  the  company  began  to 
discuss  the  "  Boss,"  as  they  called  him,  as  they  had  not 
dared  to  do  during  the  rehearsals,  when  he  might  appear 
at  any  instant. 


218  To  M.  L.  G. 

There  was  an  old  lady,  Mrs.  M ,  who  played  the 

part  of  my  mother.  She  had  seemed  to  be  a  great 

friend  of  ,  and  I  had  often  heard  her  flattering 

him  in  the  cozy,  purring  way  that  suited  her  gentle  blue 
eyes  and  dimpled,  peachy  cheeks.  Once  in  a  while  the 
idea  flitted  through  my  head  that  she  had  promised 

to  watch  me,  and  let  him  know  how  I  behaved 

myself  in  his  absence.  Very  likely  I  did  her  an  in- 
justice, and  although  I  never  trusted  her  quite,  I  was 
fond  of  her  in  spite  of  myself.  She  pretended  to  love 
me  as  much  as  if  I  were  really  her  own  daughter,  and  I 
could  not  help  enjoying  her  petting.  It  was  pleasant 
to  feel  like  a  child  with  a  kind  mother,  and  she  made  me 
call  her  "  Mamma." 

Once,  a  long  time  ago,  Mrs.  M had  been  a 

favorite  light  comedy  actress.  She  had  gone  on  the 
stage  when  a  child,  and  had  fascinating  stories  to  tell 
about  every  theatrical  celebrity  of  the  past  or  present. 
Most  of  her  anecdotes  were  scandalous,  but  she  told 
them  so  purringly,  over  her  knitting,  that  she  contrived 
to  give  them  quite  a  homely  flavor.  She  would  swing 
comfortably  to  and  fro  in  a  rocking-chair,  the  light 
from  a  window  or  lamp  turning  her  wavy  gray  hair  to 
silver,  the  bright  knitting-needles  moving  swiftly  in  her 
plump  fingers  as  she  shaped  a  stocking.  With  a  soft 
motherliness  she  would  coo  monotonously  on,  stopping 
to  count  the  stitches  in  the  midst  of  a  tale  which  would 
not  be  passed  in  print  by  any  censor.  She  had  a  way 
of  moistening  her  lips  often  as  she  spoke,  the  little  pink 
point  of  her  tongue  darting  back  and  forth  delicately, 
like  a  lizard's. 

Among  her  pet  stories  were  a  few  about  the  "  Boss  " ; 


To   M.  L.  G.  219 

but  these  she  related  carefully,  and  under  solemn  pledge 
of  secrecy.  She  must  have  known  that  there  was  a 
chance  of  my  repeating  them,  but  the  habit  of  talking 
was  irresistible  to  her,  and  I  have  noticed  that  most 
great  gossips  are  singularly  confiding. 

I  learned  from  Mrs.  M that  had 

"  launched "  dozens  of  young  actresses ;  that  he  was 
always  interested  in  some  girl  or  woman,  but  never  in 

one  for  long,  until  the  reign  of  Lily .  She  had 

kept  him  faithful,  outwardly  at  least,  for  three  or  four 
years  ;  but  "  they  "  were  saying  now  that  he  was  tired 
of  Lily,  and  would  have  thrown  her  over  if  he  were  not 
too  much  in  awe  of  her  furious  temper.  She  was  famous 
for  "  the  worst  temper  and  the  best  pearls  "  of  any  actress 
on  the  stage. 

When  Mrs.  M mentioned  's  fear  of  Lily,  I 

began  to  understand  why  he  had  been  so  careful  while 
I  was  in  New  York  lest  his  interest  in  me  should  be 
talked  about.  The  old  lady  explained  volubly  that 

though  was  said  "  never  to  do  anything  for 

nothing,"  I  need  not  be  afraid  of  slander.  I  was  "  so 
young,  only  a  child/'  and  the  "  hit "  I  had  made  with 
my  scream  had  aroused  his  curiosity  and  interest  in  me, 
that  was  all. 

I  doubted  her  protestations,  but  did  not  much  care 
whether  she  believed  in  the  theory  or  not,  or  even 
whether  the  rest  of  the  company  believed  it,  as  Mrs. 

M assured  me  they  did.  I  knew  very  well  I  was 

envied  by  the  other  girls,  each  one  of  whom  would  be 
in  my  place  if  she  could,  and  there  was  not  one  of  my 
fourteen  companions  of  the  tour,  from  the  star  down  to 
the  property  man,  who  did  not  spoil  and  flatter  me.  I 


220  To   M.  L.  G. 

basked  in  the  sunshine  of  kindness,  and  hardly  ever 
stopped  to  think  that  it  was  not  for  me,  myself,  but  for 
the  "  Boss's  "  protegee.  Even  now  I  believe  that  most  of 
the  people  really  liked  me,  for  actors  and  actresses  are 
warm-hearted  folk,  in  spite  of  their  jealousies,  and  if  I  was 
grateful  to  them,  so  were  they  grateful  to  me  for  the 
many  favors  I  was  able  to  wheedle  out  of  the  "  manage- 
ment "  for  them. 

often  came  to  see  how  the  company  was  get- 
ting on,  in  big  cities  where  he  was  interested  in  the 
theatres,  and  at  those  towns  I  had  the  best  suite  in  the 
most  luxurious  hotel.  My  sitting-room  would  be  full  of 
flowers  every  day ;  not  the  flowers  I  loved  best,  but  those 
which  were  most  expensive  and  showy  —  orchids  and 
gardenias,  and  stiff,  long-stemmed  roses,  which  I  might 
have  used  for  walking-sticks. 

Although  I  was  only  "  leading  lady,"  not  the  star  of 
the  company,  my  part  was  as  good  as  the  star  part,  and 
the  "  advance  man  "  was  instructed  to  have  me  "  written 
up  "  and  advertised  everywhere,  before  our  arrival.  My 
photographs  were  shown  in  lobbies  of  theatres  with  those 
of  the  star,  and,  being  made  to  appear  as  important,  it 
was  not  strange  that  my  newspaper  notices  were  often  as 
long  or  longer  than  his.  I  realized  that  my  success  was 
not  entirely  due  to  my  talent ;  still,  I  revelled  in  it,  and 
thought  it  worth  any  price,  no  matter  how  high. 

When  summer  came,  and  the  tour  ended,  

would  not  let  me  stop  in  New  York,  and  remembering 

Mrs.  M 's  stories,  I  guessed  that  Lily 's  power 

over  him  was  not  yet  at  an  end.  I  was  not  jealous  of 
her,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  because  the  less  I 
saw  of ,  the  happier  I  was.  But  it  vexed  me  that, 


To   M.  L.  G.  221 

because  of  Lily,  I  could  not  live  in  Neiv  York.  It  was 
very  little  consolation  to  be  reminded  that  there  was  no 
need  for  me  to  spend  long,  hot  days  in  the  city,  as  other 
actresses  had  to  do,  my  next  season's  engagement  being 
safe.  I  might  have  loved  the  country,  which  was  new  to 

me,  if had  not  frequently  broken  the  peace  of  the 

quiet  seaside  village  by  coming  there  to  spend  week-ends 

at  an  hotel  near  the  cottage  I  shared  with  Mrs.  M . 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  great  interest  of  a  new  play, 
which  was  being  written  expressly  for  me,  I  think  the 
summer  would  have  been  unbearable,  and  that,  in  despera- 
tion, I  should  have  made  my  escape  from at  any 

cost  to  my  future. 

He  let  me  hope  that  the  play  would  be  produced  at  one 
of  his  New  York  theatres,  but  when  rehearsals  began, 
and  I  had  to  run  up  to  town  every  day  for  them,  he 
could  no  longer  hide  his  real  plans  from  me.  He  told 
me,  then,  that,  after  all,  he  had  decided  to  send  me  on 
tour  once  more.  When  I  came  back,  rich  in  experience 
and  success,  I  should  be  a  "  real  star,"  worthy  to  shine 
in  the  most  important  city  of  America,  and  be  taken 
seriously  by  the  critics.  Of  course,  I  knew  that  he  had 
never  meant  to  let  me  open  in  New  York,  and  that  he 
was  still  "  afraid  "  of  Lily.  But  I  liked  my  new  part  too 
well  to  be  very  angry.  Nothing  outside  it  mattered  just 
then. 

The  part  I  had  played  the  season  before  was  that  of  a 
young  girl,  a  spoilt  child,  half  ingenue,  half  soubrette. 
There  was  no  real  feeling  in  the  acting.  The  new  part 
was  emotional,  and  though  the  character  was  unlike  my 
own,  putting  myself  in  it,  and  learning  to  live  it  and  be 
it,  seemed  to  wake  a  side  of  my  nature  that  had  been 


222  To   M.  L.  G. 

asleep.  I  longed  for  a  different  kind  of  happiness  from 
any  I  had  ever  known.  Music  stirred  me  as  it  never  had 
before.  It  was  as  if  my  nerves  were  the  strings  of  some 
instrument,  answering  to  every  touch.  I  trembled  all 
over  with  physical  dread  when  a  telegram  arrived  telling 

me  that was  to  be  expected.  I  loved  no  one,  but 

I  dreamed  of  the  ideal  lover,  and  he  was  in  all  ways  the 
opposite  of . 

We  had  good  bookings,  and  very  few  one-night  stands, 
so  that  we  led  a  lazy  life,  in  spite  of  our  evening's  work; 
yet,  though  I  did  very  little  by  day,  except  read  novels 
and  eat  chocolates,  my  spirit  was  restless,  though  my 
body  was  idle.  It  was  as  if  a  prisoner  in  a  tomb  were 
trying  to  cry  out  and  force  some  one  to  hear.  Because  I 
was  not  as  nearly  contented  as  I  had  been  the  year  be- 
fore, and  because  my  luxury  was  no  longer  a  new  and 
satisfying  toy,  my  acting  was  better  than  it  had  been. 
I  think  I  was  like  some  one  in  a  dark  room,  fumbling 
blindly  to  find  a  thing  which  had  been  seen  there  in 
a  dream. 

The  winter  after  that  —  the  third  which  had  passed 
since  my  acquaintance  with ,  almost  to  my  sur- 
prise, he  kept  his  promise.  Either  he  had  tired  at  last  of 
Lily,  and  ceased  even  to  be  afraid  of  her,  or  she  had 
thrown  him  over,  for  she  had  gone  to  another  manage- 
ment. He  put  me  into  the  theatre  where  she  had  been 
leading  lady,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  much  about  it,  but 
I  made  a  success  in  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

I  HAD  no  flirtations  during  those  years  when  I  owed 
everything  to .     If  there  were  any   virtues 
in  me  at  that  time,  they  were  gratitude  and  loyalty. 
But  perhaps,  if  I  had  been   strongly   tempted,  I  might 
have  been  both  ungrateful  and  disloyal.     I  am  not  sure. 
All  that  I  know  is,  no  man  came  into  my  life  who  made 

me  wish  to  deceive .     The  more  I  studied  him  (as 

unconsciously  I  studied  all  people)  and  saw  him  cruel, 
cynical,  tyrannical,  yet  sensitively  vain,  ferociously  jeal- 
ous and  coarse-minded,  his  faults  veiled  to  strangers 
under  a  thin  surface  of  bluff  good  nature,  the  less  I  in- 
clined to  trust  other  men.  If  I  showed  disgust  for  him 
(as  I  did  sometimes  in  brave  moments  when  I  would 
have  died  for  the  pleasure  of  speaking  my  mind)  he 
would  say,  "  I'm  no  worse  than  any  one  else  —  better 
than  most.  Every  mother's  son  of  us  is  a  beast  at  heart' 
if  it  comes  to  that ;  and  women  wouldn't  like  us  if  we 
weren't."  All  my  experience  went  to  make  me  believe 
that  he  spoke  the  truth  about  men. 

It  is  hard  not  to  pity  myself  when  I  think  what  I  was 
at  that  time  —  though  maybe  I  deserved  no  pity.  I  was 
like  a  lost  child  trying  to  find  light,  but  not  knowing  the 
difference  between  gaslight  and  sunlight.  I  knew  no 
better  than  to  believe  that  gaslight  was  the  only  light  in 
the  world.  I  tried  hard  to  think  myself  happy,  for  ta  / 
give  up,  and  admit  to  being  unhappy  was  like  lying  down 
to  die.  One  of  the  things  that  still  had  power  to  amuse 

223 


224  To   M.  L.  G. 

me,  and  keep  me  from  black  moods,  was  gazing  at  my 
jewellery.  I  can  hardly  realize  it  now,  in  looking  back, 
but  my  jewels  were  to  me  what  morphia  is  to  some 
women.  When  I  felt  dissatisfied  with  life,  and  wished  I 
had  died  when  I  was  a  child,  rather  than  ever  have 

met ,  I  would  get  out  all  my  diamonds  and  pearls, 

and  my  black  opals,  the  stones  I  loved  better  than  any 
others,  because  they  seemed  to  me  like  stormy  souls  of 
dead  geniuses.  I  would  look  at  them  all,  and  say  to  my- 
self, "  What  is  there  in  the  world  that  is  better  to 
possess  ?  "  But  sometimes  the  medicine  would  have  no 
effect,  or  would  make  me  even  worse  than  before.  I 
would  feel  as  if  I  were  drowning  in  a  terrible,  cold  sea, 
which  engulfed  me  with  wave  after  wave.  Then,  in 
frantic  desperation,  which  seized  me  I  did  not  know  why, 
I  would  pull  off  all  my  rings  and  bangles,  and  fling  them 
about  the  floor.  I  would  empty  my  jewel-cases,  and 
throw  everything  in  them  across  the  room.  For  a  few 
wild  minutes  I  could  find  a  savage  relief  in  that  con- 
fusion, of  which  the  confusion  of  my  mind  was  part.  I 
would  think  of  running  away,  or  collecting  little  doses  of 
chloral  and  killing  myself;  but  it  all  ended  in  nothing. 
By  and  by  my  elderly  maid,  Jane,  who  was  used  to  what 
she  called  my  "  tantrums,"  would  pick  up  the  scattered 
rings  and  pendants,  and  dog-collars,  and  bracelets.  She 
would  put  the  jewels  away  in  their  places  ;  and  before 
long,  the  day  always  came  when  I  was  quite  pleased  to 
put  my  discarded  treasures  on  again.  I  was  not  ashamed 
of  these  exhibitions,  but  at  heart  rather  proud  of  them. 
With  a  kind  of  morbid  childishness,  I  vaguely  thought  it 
interesting,  and  a  sign  that  I  was  a  genius,  to  indulge  in 
*'  tantrums."  They  proved  that,  indeed,  I  had  tempera- 


To   M.  L.  G.  225 

ment.  I  believed  that  all  people  who  controlled  their 
emotions  were  cold  and  uninteresting.  I  encouraged 
myself  to  give  way  to  storms  of  anger.  I  boasted  of 
being  fantastic  and  whimsical,  and  hard  to  please.  The 
novels  I  had  read,  and  the  theories  I  had  formed  from 
life,  made  me  think  that,  to  be  charming,  a  woman  ought 
to  develop  a  new  mood  each  new  hour.  She  ought 
never  to  be  in  the  same  mind  twice,  or  let  a  man  know 
what  to  expect  from  her  the  next  moment.  The  region 
of  intellect  was  as  utterly  beyond  my  comprehension  as 
the  words  "  up  "  or  "  down  "  to  the  inhabitants  of  Flatland. 
When  fits  of  depression  seized  me,  in  the  last  of  the 
four  bad  years,  I  tried  going  to  church  as  a  solace. 
Organ  music,  in  the  twilight,  brought  tears  streaming 
from  my  eyes.  I  longed  to  become  a  Catholic,  feeling 
vaguely  that  the  incense  and  the  singing  would  raise  me 
out  of  myself,  near  to  heaven.  But  I  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  confessing  to  a  priest.  At  Vespers,  I  often 
yearned  to  throw  myself  at  the  feet  of  some  man  of 
God,  and  beg  for  absolution  for  my  sins.  Yet  I  held 
back;  and  next  day,  perhaps,  I  would  insist  defiantly 

that  I  had  no  serious  sins  to  confess.     I  was,  as 

said  of  himself,  "  no  worse  than  any  one  else  —  better 
than  most."  And  then  maybe  I  would  go  out  and  give 
away  money  indiscriminately,  in  what  I  supposed  to  be 
"  charity."  That  act  would  make  me  feel  very  good, 
and  in  harmony  with  all  the  world  for  a  little  while ;  but 
perhaps  when  night  came,  the  doubt  and  despair  would 
press  down  on  me  again,  like  the  lid  of  a  coffin.  I  re- 
membered Alma  on  such  nights,  and  told  myself  out 
aloud,  with  my  face  hot,  and  my  hair  tangled  over  my 
pillow,  that  it  was  the  fate  of  all  true  artists  to  be  miser- 


226  To   M.  L.  G. 

able.  But  even  that  did  not  soothe  me  long,  since  I  was 
never  sure  for  twelve  hours  together  that  I  was  a  true 
artist.  There  was  perhaps  more  comfort  in  thinking  it 
useless  to  struggle  against  destiny,  for  that  saved  trouble. 
I  bought  myself  a  diamond  brooch,  formed  of  the  word 
"  Kismet,"  and  looked  at  it  often  when  I  was  alone.  But 

I  never  wore  it  when  it  could  be  seen  by  .  I 

could  not  bear  to  have  him  ask  questions. 

After  a  violently  religious  phase,  when  I  prayed  and 
sobbed  all  night,  there  came  a  phase  of  cold  atheism.  I 
said  sullenly  that  there  was  no  God,  no  after-life,  nothing 
to  do  in  this  world  but  enjoy  oneself  and  help  others  to 
enjoy  themselves.  I  grew  very  hard  and  bitter,  and  per- 
haps found  some  childish  satisfaction  in  becoming  a  cynic, 
since  other  satisfaction  there  was  none.  But  I  was  no 
longer  as  amusing  a  companion  as  I  had  been.  I  was 
twenty,  and  I  felt  very  old.  Nothing  interested  me  ex- 
cept my  acting,  and  I  cared  for  nobody  except  Jane,  my 
maid,  who  lectured  me  and  was  fond  of  me  —  the  only 
creature  in  the  world  who  loved  me  unselfishly. 

Of  four  years,  I  spent  half  the  time  in  travelling,  half 
in  New  York,  where  I  lived  far  up-town,  in  a  pretty  flat 
which  I  never  liked,  and  would  rather  not  describe  to 
you.  I  went  to  the  theatre  in  a  motor-car  of  my  own 

every  night.  Jane  knew  all  about ,  and  disapproved 

of  him  and  everything  connected  with  him,  with  her 
whole  soul.  Yet  she  would  not  desert  me,  though  she 
was  religious  —  an  ardent  Methodist.  She  was  a  different 
woman  when  we  went  on  tour,  and  I  knew  why,  though 
she  never  hinted  at  the  reason.  Stern  as  she  was,  she 
was  the  soul  of  discretion.  I,  too,  was  happier  away 
from  New  York,  because  the  third  and  fourth  year, 


To   M.  L.  G.  227 

followed  me  less  often,  when  on  the  road.  I  think 

Jane  hoped,  perhaps  prayed,  that  he  would  at  last  ask 
me  to  marry  him. 

If  he  had  asked,  almost  certainly  I  should  have  refused. 
Marriage  seemed  to  my  mind  a  stupid  state  to  enter  into, 
a  kind  of  stepping-stone  to  divorce,  and  extremely  dull 
while  it  lasted.  But  it  was  a  severe  shock,  nevertheless, 
when  one  day told  me  abruptly  that  he  was  married. 

I  had  just  finished  a  long,  successful  tour,  and  had 
arrived  at  my  flat,  with  Jane,  both  of  us  tired  out  after  a 
hot,  dusty  journey.  A  servant,  reengaged  from  the  season 
before,  had  returned,  and  opened  the  rooms  for  us.  There 
were  flowers  everywhere,  and  it  did  not  matter  much  who 
had  sent  them.  The  place  looked  sweet  and  fresh,  and 
for  the  first  time  seemed  like  home.  I  had  been  depressed 
by  the  thought  of  coming  back  to  New  York  for  the 
summer,  but  for  the  moment  the  depression  was  gone.  I 
was  singing  as  I  rearranged  some  strong-stemmed 
American  Beauty  roses  in  glass  vases.  I  am  glad  one 
doesn't  often  see  American  Beauty  roses  in  England.  I 
have  never  cared  for  them  since  that  day. 

was  announced.  I  had  not  seen  him  for  a  long 

time  —  only  once  since  I  started  out  West  in  the  autumn. 
He  had  written  seldom,  but  had  sent  many  telegrams, 
which  I  liked  better  than  his  letters.  They  were  less 
troublesome  to  read  or  answer.  Always  he  had  excused 
himself  for  his  negligence,  saying  that  he  had  a  great  deal 
of  business  to  attend  to ;  and  I  was  thankful  for  the 
business. 

When  he  came  in  and  found  me  among  the  roses,  he 
seemed  delighted  to  see  me,  and  paid  me  a  great  many 
compliments.  "  I'd  almost  forgotten  how  pretty  you 


228  To   M.  L.  G. 

were,"  he  said.  And  there  was  a  curious,  anxious  look 
in  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  me.  Perhaps  he  had 

once  looked  at  Lily in  that  way.  I  wondered  if  he 

had  been  losing  money  on  some  of  his  theatrical 
companies. 

At  last  he  blurted  out,  "  I've  got  a  thing  to  say  to 
you  that  you  won't  like.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  first 
that  it  isn't  going  to  hurt  you,  or  make  any  difference 
between  us." 

He  floundered  on  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  grew 
brusque  again,  in  self-defense.  The  long  and  short  of  it 
was  that  he  had  been  married  the  day  before.  Without 
giving  me  time  to  speak,  after  that  bare  statement,  he 
hurried  to  explain  some  of  his  reasons  for  marrying.  It 
was  a  marriage  of  expedience,  he  said ;  benefits  to  gain 
on  both  sides.  But  when  he  told  me  the  name  of  the 
woman,  I  was  sure  that  he  must  have  tired  of  me,  and  at 
least  have  fancied  himself  in  love  with  her. 

Then,  though  I  had  a  feeling  for  him  which  had  come 
very  near  to  loathing,  if  I  analyzed  it,  I  was  suddenly 
furious.  I  had  kept  him  faithful  longer  than  any  one  else 
had  been  able  to  do.  But  now  this  woman  had  put  me 

in  the  place  where  I  had  put  Lily .  All  that  was 

bad  in  my  nature  rose  boiling  to  the  surface.  I  think  I 
had  never  been  really  wicked  at  heart  before,  in  spite  of 
all  the  wrong  things  I  had  done ;  but  I  was  very  wicked 
then.  I  made  up  my  mind  deliberately  to  win  him 
back,  and  take  him  away  from  his  wife.  I  saw  that  he 
admired  me  still,  more  than  he  had  realized  while  I  was 
away.  I  felt  that  he  was  sincere  in  saying  that  he  had 
"  forgotten  how  pretty  I  was  "  ;  and  the  look  in  his  eyes 
told  me  that  I  had  power  over  him. 


To   M.  L.  G.  229 

No  doubt  he  had  been  afraid  that  I  would  make  a 
scene ;  but  a  bad  sort  of  cleverness  kept  me  from  speak- 
ing out  the  thoughts  in  my  mind.  I  was  gentle  and 
friendly,  and  a  little  sad,  outside.  Inside,  I  was  like  a 
wicked  cat,  planning  where  to  scratch.  And  all  the  time 
I  knew  that  I  was  wicked ;  but  I  did  not  care. 

I  assured that  he  had  had  a  perfect  right  to  marry, 

and  I  was  not  angry.  But  the  only  right  thing  for  me  to 
do  was  to  give  him  up  at  once.  I  had  saved  enough 
money  to  live  on  for  a  while ;  and  next  season,  if  he 
would  like  to  give  some  one  else  the  part  which  he  was 
having  written  for  me,  I  could  easily  get  another  engage- 
ment —  thanks  to  his  past  kindness.  All  the  managers 
knew  now  what  I  could  do,  and  there  were  several  who 
would  be  glad  to  have  me  in  one  of  their  companies. 

The  lady  he  had  just  married  was  an  actress,  and  a 
strikingly  handsome,  talented  woman ;  but  I  was  sure  that 
she  could  not  and  would  not  play  the  part  I  spoke  of.  I 
could  see,  without  waiting  to  hear  it  from  him,  that  he 
meant  to  send  me  on  tour  next  winter,  in  the  new  part, 
while  she  was  starred  in  the  New  York  theatre.  As  I 
thought  of  this,  it  made  my  heart  feel  more  and  more 
wicked.  I  was  glad  that  I  was  ten  years  younger  than 

's  new  wife  ;  and  I  felt  very  certain  that  I  could  make 

him  regret  marrying  her  —  maybe  make  her  regret 
marrying  him. 

I  would  not  listen  to  any  more  explanations,  but  said 
firmly  that  I  would  give  up  the  flat,  and  go  away  to  the 
country.  It  would  be  easy  to  sublet  the  flat,  I  went  on 
gently.  He  would  have  no  trouble  about  it ;  and  even  if 
it  were  to  stand  empty,  I  could  not  live  there  any  longer. 
I  insisted,  too,  upon  returning  to  him  all  his  presents 


230  To   M.  L.  G. 

of  jewellery.  He  could  give  them  to  his  wife,  if  he 
liked,  I  said  quietly.  She  would  never  know  from  me  that 
they  had  belonged  to  anybody  else  before  coming  to  her. 

I  talked  so  sweetly  that  he  was  almost  reduced  to  tears, 
and  his  sentimental  regrets  seemed  so  maudlin  to  me,  that 
I  could  hardly  look  at  him.  But  I  was  beginning  to  be 
pleased  with  myself,  because  I  was  acting  as  well  as  I  had 
ever  acted  on  the  stage. 

You  may  not  understand  quite  what  I  mean,  when  I 
say  that  I  had  never  been  so  wicked  as  I  was  in  leaving 

.  But  I  am  sure  a  woman  would  understand.  I 

was  unscrupulous  and  cruel ;  and  I  had  never  been  either 
of  those  things  before. 

Nothing  that  he  could  say  or  do  would  make  me 
change  my  mind.  He  refused  to  go  away  unless  I  would 
promise  to  stay  in  the  flat,  and  keep  all  his  presents ;  but 
he  was  obliged  to  yield  in  the  end.  No  doubt  he  had 
some  engagement  with  his  wife,  and  was  anxious  lest  she 
should  find  out  that  he  had  been  to  my  flat.  I  could 
imagine  how  she  must  have  made  him  swear  that  he 
would  never  see  or  speak  to  me  again,  and  I  had  a  cold 
pleasure  in  the  breaking  of  his  vow. 

I  wished  that  I  had  flirted  desperately  and  secretly  ever 
since  the  day  when  I  knew  him  first ;  and  I  said  to  my- 
self that  it  was  not  too  late  to  begin.  I  wanted  to  make 
him  suffer,  now  that  he  had  no  longer  any  right  to  com- 
plain of  my  ingratitude. 

When  he  had  gone,  I  told  Jane  to  pack  again  the  things 
that  she  had  just  unpacked,  except  the  jewellery.  All 
's  presents  to  me  I  sent  in  a  sealed  package,  by  dis- 
trict messenger,  to  his  office,  with  "  To  await  Mr. '& 

arrival  "  written  on  it  in  large  black  letters. 


To  M.  L.  G.  231 

Then  I  decided  to  go  to  a  place  so  well  known  and 

conspicuous  that,  if followed  me  there,  his  wife 

would  be  sure  to  hear  of  it.  Summer  had  begun,  and  in 
thinking  over  different  seaside  towns  which  might  suit 
me,  I  chose  N tt.  A  great  many  rich  theatrical  peo- 
ple and  their  friends  went  to  N tt,  even  out  of  season. 

I  had  plenty  of  money,  because  my  salary  for  the  last 

two  years  had  been  very  good.  As  I  had  told , 

I  knew  that  I  could  find  plenty  of  engagements.  There 
was  no  need  for  me  to  save;  but  even  if  there  had  been  I 
would  not  have  wished  to  save.  I  took  a  furnished  cot- 
tage at  N tt,  let  by  a  family  who  had  gone  to  Europe ; 

and  next  day  the  news  was  in  the  papers.  The  same 

morning  I  had  a  telegram  from ,  in  the  cipher 

code  he  always  used  in  wiring  to  me.  He  had  been  dis- 
tracted at  my  disappearance,  and  begged  me  to  come 
back  to  New  York.  I  had  expected  this,  and  did  not 

answer.  I  knew  that  he  was  afraid  to  come  to  N tt, 

but  I  was  certain  that  if  I  remained  firm  he  would  come, 
sooner  or  later. 

Every  day  I  received  telegrams  and  letters,  but  I  took 
no  notice  of  them.  Once  a  messenger  brought  me  all 
the  jewellery  which  I  had  returned,  but  I  sent  it  back  by 
the  same  boy,  under  another  cover  addressed  to . 

This  went  on  for  several  weeks,  but  at  last  he  could 
bear  it  no  longer.  He  arrived  one  evening,  after  dark, 
and  bribed  a  new  servant  of  mine  who  answered  the  door 
to  let  him  in  and  surprise  me.  I  was  just  finishing  dinner 
when  he  walked  in. 

His  face  showed  that  he  dreaded  a  bad  reception,  and 
I  saw,  as  I  had  seen  before,  that  I  had  him  at  my  mercy. 
Instead  of  telling  him  to  go,  I  was  kind,  though  sad,  as  I 


232  To   M.  L.  G. 

had  been  when  I  sent  him  away  from  my  flat  in  New 
York.  I  sat  down  again,  and  gave  him  dinner,  as  he 
said  that  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat.  Then,  when  he  had 
drunk  some  wine,  he  began  to  pour  out  all  his  troubles. 

The  marriage  was  not  a  success.  His  wife  was  cold 
as  ice,  yet  very  jealous.  According  to  his  story,  she  had 
a  nagging  temper,  and  was  recklessly  extravagant.  She 
spent  his  money  like  water,  and  gave  him  nothing  in  re- 
turn. Already  he  was  wondering  "  what  the  devil  he  had 
seen  in  her."  He  wished  to  heaven  that  they  were  not 
married,  and  that  he  could  go  back  to  old  times.  But  on 
the  mother's  side  she  was  related  to  some  important  peo- 
ple in  society.  If  they  could  "  worry  along  without  a 
bust  up,"  he  said,  they  might  be  received  together  into  a 
very  different  set  in  New  York  from  any  that  had  ever 
opened  its  doors  to  him.  He  confessed  that,  now  he  had 
plenty  of  money  and  was  tired  of  hard  work,  he  had  be- 
gun to  be  ambitious  socially.  With  his  wealth  and  his 
wife's  connections  and  good  reputation,  he  believed  that 
by  and  by  he  could  "  get  to  the  top  of  the  society  tree," 
and  he  wanted  to  do  it,  because  he  had  succeeded  in 
everything  else  he  had  undertaken.  He  was  trying  for 
this  now,  with  all  his  might,  and  would  hate  to  fail. 
Failure  would  mean  that  he  had  married  "  a  beast  of  a 
woman  "  in  vain. 

Then  he  went  on  to  repeat  what  he  had  told  me  in 
New  York ;  that  he  did  not  love  his  wife,  and  that  I  was 
the  only  girl  for  whom  he  had  ever  cared.  He  begged 
that  I  would  take  him  back,  and  yet  help  him  not  to  get 
found  out. 

I  longed  to  let  the  man  see  my  full  contempt  for  him ; 
but  that  was  not  in  the  game  I  was  playing.  It  was  a 


To   M.  L.  G  233 

game  —  a  wicked  game;  and  if  I  was  not  punished 
enough  long  ago,  I  am  punished  now,  in  having  to  write 
of  this  to  you,  without  making  excuses  for  myself. 
Rather  than  smooth  things  over,  and  try  to  appear  better 
than  I  was,  I  will  risk  your  thinking  me  callous,  just  as  I 
have  risked  your  thinking  me  coarse.  And  the  most 
horrible  thing  is  that  perhaps  you  will  be  right.  I  may 
be  too  ready  to  forgive  myself.  But  you  will  not  make 
that  mistake.  If  I  could  be  sure,  at  least,  that  you  un- 
derstand why  I  have  let  myself  seem  brutal!  But  it  is 
part  of  my  punishment  that  I  cannot  be  sure ;  that  I  feel 
it  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  understand  at  all. 

I  was  unfailingly  gentle  in  my  manner  to ,  and 

said  at  last  that  I  would  think  things  over,  if  he  cared  to 
stop  till  Monday  in  the  hotel.  I  told  him  that  he  might 
come  and  see  me  sometimes,  as  a  friend,  while  he  was 
there.  I  took  advantage  of  such  fondness  as  he  had  for 
me  to  hurt  him ;  and  it  did  hurt  him  to  feel  that  he  had 
lost  me.  He  stayed ;  and  though  he  was  careful  not  to 
be  seen,  and  even  took  his  meals  in  a  private  sitting- 
room,  the  day  after  he  went  back  to  New  York  one  or 

two  papers  stated  that  had  spent  the  week-end 

at  N tt. 

He  had  mentioned  that  his  wife  had  just  been  operated 
on  for  appendicitis,  or  else  he  would  not  have  been  able 
to  slip  quietly  away  for  three  whole  days.  It  seemed 

that  he  had  told  the  truth  ;  but  though  Mrs. was 

shut  up  for  weeks  in  a  hospital,  somehow  she  contrived  to 
find  out  where  her  husband  had  been  for  those  few  days. 
After  a  terrible  scene  with  her,  he  wrote  to  me,  throwing 
himself  on  my  mercy.  And  that  letter  unexpectedly 
began  a  new  phase  of  my  life. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ONE  afternoon  I  was  lying  in  a  hammock,  on  a 
narrow  back  veranda  of  the  cottage  I  had 
taken  at  N tt.  It  was  thickly  screened  with 

grape  vines,  through  which  a  green  light  sifted,  almost 
as  deep  a  color  as  if  the  little  veranda  had  been  walled 
in  with  green  glass.  On  hot  days,  a  pleasant,  bitter- 
sweet smell  of  the  young  grapes  and  curly  tendrils  was 
drawn  out  by  the  sun ;  and  when  it  mingled  with  a  salt 
breeze  from  the  sea  it  was  a  heady  fragrance  that  excited 
me  oddly.  But  then,  everything  that  was  keenly  pleas- 
ant excited  me.  Nothing  could  give  me  peace. 

I  was  studying  my  part  that  afternoon,  for had 

begged  me  to  go  on  under  his  management  the  next 
season,  and  I  had  consented,  chiefly  because  I  liked  the 
new  part  so  much  I  could  not  easily  give  it  up.  I 
wanted  to  play  it  better  than  I  had  ever  played  a  part 

before,  so  that  might  fully  realize  what  he  had 

lost  in  losing  me.  It  is  strange  that  I  still  resented  so 
passionately  his  secretly  marrying  another  actress  while 
pretending  to  care  only  for  me,  because,  since  I  had 
broken  away  from  him,  my  life  was  a  thousand  times 
pleasanter  than  it  had  been  for  years.  And  yet  I  did 
resent  his  marriage,  I  do  not  know  why,  unless  some 
curious  twist  in  human  nature  makes  us  want  to  be  first 
always,  even  with  those  whom  we  wish  never  to  see 
again. 

One  side  of  me  was  absorbed  in  my  study,  the  other 

234 


To  M.  L.  G.  235 

side  —  the  child-side,  which  I  think  never  dies  in  a 
woman  —  was  pretending  to  be  a  mermaid,  floating  with 
the  tide,  far  down  under  the  green  roof  of  the  sea. 
Probably  I  should  have  dropped  off  to  sleep  soon,  if  I 
had  not  heard  the  door-bell  ring. 

That  sharp  sound  usually  meant  a  telegram  or  a  letter, 

for  very  few  people  I  knew  were  at  N tt  just  then. 

A  minute  more,  and  a  servant  (the  only  one  I  had,  besides 
the  indispensable  Jane)  brought  me  a  visiting-card. 

It  was  a  very  small  one,  so  I  knew,  even  before  reading 
the  name,  that  my  caller  was  a  man.  I  was  just  invent- 
ing an  excuse,  for  I  could  think  of  nobody  for  whose 
sake  I  would  care  to  break  off  my  studying  and  dream- 
ing, when  I  read  the  name :  "  Mr.  William  V ,"  with 

a  very  magnificent  address  underneath,  and  that  of  an 
exclusive  club  for  the  richest  young  men  of  New  York. 
Instantly  I  changed  my  mind  and  decided  to  see  him. 

Not  because  he  belonged  to  a  grand  family,  whom  it 
was  supposed  to  be  an  honor  to  know,  but  because  I  was 
curious  as  to  why  he  had  come  to  call ;  and  still  more, 
because  of  another  reason  which  I  shall  have  to  explain, 
to  make  you  understand  —  even  a  little  —  the  things  I 
did  afterwards.  And  to  explain,  I  must  go  back  to  the 
winter  before,  and  tell  you  about  an  incident  which  was 
of  importance  in  my  life  only  because  of  Willy  V . 

I  played  in  Washington,  at  one  of  the  best  theatres ; 
and  because  I  was  rather  the  fashion,  as  the  youngest  of 
the  successful  actresses  on  the  stage  just  then,  the  gayest 
set  of  young  people  "  took  me  up "  socially.  Several 
girls  were  very  nice  and  kind,  in  a  cordial  way  which 
belongs  only  to  the  South  and  the  far,  far  West,  and  I 
was  flattered  and  pleased.  They  told  me  that  I  was 


236  To   M.  L.  G. 

pretty,  and  a  splendid  actress,  and  that  they  envied  me 
for  being  on  the  stage.  They  asked  me  all  sorts  of 
questions,  which  it  amused  me  to  answer,  and  made  me 
feel  of  great  importance  as  a  beauty  and  a  genius.  They 
sent  me  my  own  photographs  to  sign,  and  gave  me  pres- 
ents of  flowers  and  chocolates.  Also  they  invited  me  to 
luncheon  parties,  which  was  a  greater  compliment  than 
the  rest,  for  it  showed  that  they  had  never  heard,  or  at 
all  events  never  believed,  scandal  about  me,  and  perhaps 
that  they  accepted  as  truth  the  newspaper  stories  of  my 
good  birth  and  early  surroundings. 

While  I  was  there,  in  Washington,  Margaret  V , 

who  had  come  out  in  New  York  that  autumn,  arrived 
to  visit  a  school-friend  whose  father  was  a  senator  from 
the  South.  This  friend  sent  out  invitations  for  a  lunch- 
eon party  in  honor  of  Miss  V ,  and  I  was  asked. 

All  the  other  girls  invited  were  in  their  own  set.  I 
accepted,  and  was  looking  forward  to  it,  because  it 
seemed  likely  to  be  more  interesting  than  most  lunch- 
eons ;  but  the  day  after  writing  my  acceptance  the 
invitation  was  cancelled.  My  young  hostess's  mother 
wrote  a  civil  note,  saying  that  her  daughter  was  ill,  and 
would  not  be  able  to  give  the  entertainment  after  all. 

I  would  have  thought  no  more  about  it,  if  I  had  not 
received  an  anonymous  letter  at  the  theatre,  telling  me 
that  the  luncheon  had  only  been  abandoned  in  order  to 

get  rid  of  me  ;  that  Miss  V had  refused  to  make  my 

acquaintance,  because  she  had  heard  that  I  was  "  not 
respectable  "  ;  and  that  as  soon  as  I  left  Washington,  the 
invitations  would  be  sent  out  again. 

If  I  had  been  very  sensible,  perhaps  I  would  not  have 
cared ;  but  I  did  care,  immensely.  I  tried  not  to  believe 


To   M.  L.  G.  237 

what  the  anonymous  letter  said,  but  I  felt  that  it  had 
told  me  the  truth  ;  and  it  was  just  as  if  I  had  been 
publicly  struck  in  the  face.  The  last  few  days  of  my 
stay  in  Washington  were  spoiled.  My  vitality  was  low- 
ered. Even  my  acting  was  affected ;  and  when  I  tried 
to  eat,  there  was  always  a  lump  in  my  throat.  I  im- 
agined that  every  one  knew,  and  whether  it  were  fact  or 
fancy,  it  appeared  to  me  that  the  new  friends  I  had 
made  were  not  as  cordial  as  they  had  been.  My  foolish 
sensitiveness,  which  was  probably  more  than  half  vanity 
(though  I  didn't  realize  it  then),  felt  the  bruise  for  a  long 
time.  I  brooded  over  the  slight  just  as  indignantly  as 
if  I  had  not  deserved  it ;  and  when  I  had  good  notices 
for  my  acting,  in  other  cities,  the  remembrance  came 
between  my  eyes  and  the  paragraphs  which  would  other- 
wise have  made  my  heart  beat  with  joy.  The  kindness 
of  many  other  people  did  not  console  me  for  the  scorn 
of  that  one  New  York  girl  of  my  own  age,  who  had 
refused  to  know  me  because  I  was  "  not  respectable." 
Those  two  words,  which  had  put  me  beyond  the  pale, 
rankled  in  my  mind  at  all  sorts  of  unlikely  times 
and  places.  I  would  hear  them  in  the  night,  when  I 
ought  to  have  been  dropping  off  to  sleep ;  or  the 
whirring  wheels  of  a  flying  train  would  say  them  over 
and  over. 

You  will  think  this  strange,  because  what  I  have  told 
you  of  my  life  has  shown  how  little  regard  I  paid  to 
conventionalities,  and  how  little  I  knew  about  them; 
but  I  suppose  there  are  characteristics  in  one's  blood, 
which  have  come  from  unknown  ancestors,  different  in 
most  ways  from  oneself,  and  one  does  not  even  know 
that  the  traits  are  there  until  something  happens  to 


238  To   M.  L.  G. 

bring  them  up  suddenly  to  the  surface.  I  had  never 
realized  before  how  it  could  hurt  to  have  a  well  brought 
up  girl  shrink  from  me  because  I  was  not  as  she  was, 

until  Margaret  V refused  to  meet  me  at  luncheon. 

That  was  the  entering  wedge  which  pierced  my  sensi- 
bility, if  not  my  conscience,  and  began  to  show  me 
sharply  what  a  price  I  had  undertaken  to  pay  for  my 
advancement  on  the  stage,  and  the  sweet  cleanliness 
and  all  the  luxuries  I  had  gloried  in  after  escaping  from 
Mrs.  F 's. 

Now  you  can  see  a  little  of  what  I  felt  when  I  took 

Willy  V 's  card  in  my  hand  that  afternoon  in  the 

hammock  ;  but  only  a  little,  because  you  are  a  man, 
high-minded  and  nobly  ready  to  forgive  things  that 
ought  to  be  forgiven. 

Willy  V was  Margaret  V 's  brother.  I  knew 

this,  because,  after  reading  in  the  paper  about  the 
luncheon  party,  which  was  promptly  given  after  I  left 
Washington,  it  had  seemed  that  I  was  continually 
coming  upon  the  name  of  that  family.  They  were  not 
among  the  great,  sensational  millionaires,  and  they  were 
not  people  who  advertised  themselves  and  their  doings, 
as  some  of  the  mushroom  millionaires  do;  but  the 

V s  were  too  important  in  society  to  keep  out  of  the 

papers,  and  their  names  had  sprung  at  my  eyes  nearly 

every  day  since  Washington.  I  knew  that  Willy  V 

had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  travelling  in  Europe  since 
leaving  college,  and  I  had  read  only  a  week  or  two 
before  that  Margaret  was  in  England,  staying  with  an 
aunt  who  had  married  a  man  of  title.  There  was  a 
rumor,  the  paper  said,  that  the  American  heiress  was 
•engaged  to  a  relation  of  her  aunt's  husband,  and  the 


To   M.  L.  G.  239 

name  was  mentioned  —  a  very  ancient  one,  which  can 
be  seen  in  a  play  of  Shakespeare's. 

For  a  second  or  two  an  angry  impulse  made  me  want 

to  shut  my  door  on  Willy  V with  a  rude  message ; 

but  quickly  I  remembered  how  I  had  lain  awake  at 
night,  weaving  all  sorts  of  revenges,  more  or  less  fan- 
tastic and  childish,  to  punish  Margaret  for  what  I  had 
suffered.  I  saw,  after  an  instant's  reflection,  that  I  had 
a  far  better  chance  of  punishing  her  by  keeping  her 
brother,  than  in  sending  him  away.  I  did  not  stop  to 
arrange  any  definite  plan,  but  I  told  the  servant  that 
she  might  bring  Mr.  V out  to  the  veranda. 

I  knew  that  I  looked  well  in  the  hammock,  which  was 
of  canvas,  dyed  scarlet,  and  I  was  propped  up  on  a  pile 
of  red  silk  cushions,  which  made  as  good  a  background 
as  I  could  have  chosen  for  my  hair,  and  my  thin  white 
dress.  Probably  a  girl  in  society  would  have  risen  to 
receive  a  caller  whom  she  had  never  met,  but  I  did  not 
know  or  care  whether  that  would  be  the  right  thing  to 
do.  I  lay  still,  in  the  green  light,  feeling  somehow  as 
if  I  were  on  the  stage,  playing  a  new  part  on  a  first 
night  —  a  part  I  had  not  quite  learned. 

I  had  seen  Margaret  V in  a  box  at  the  theatre 

in  Washington,  and  she  was  pretty,  with  red  hair,  which 
was  her  principal  beauty.  As  her  brother  came  through 
one  of  the  two  long  windows  on  to  the  veranda,  I  saw 
that  there  was  a  family  resemblance,  though  he  was  not 
handsome.  He,  too,  had  red  hair,  but  redder  than 
Margaret's,  and  instead  of  a  very  white  skin,  as  she  had, 
his  was  brown  (not  a  soldier-brown,  like  yours,  but  a 
brown-red  brick  color)  with  quantities  of  big  yellow 
freckles  spattered  over  his  face.  He  was  very  tall  and 


240  To   M.  L.  G. 

slim,  with  a  long  neck  in  an  extremely  high  collar,  and 
he  was  so  well  dressed,  and  had  such  straight  slender 
legs,  that  he  gave  the  effect  of  having  a  perfect  figure. 
He  had  curled- up  red  eyelashes,  almost  invisible  brows, 
and,  being  clean-shaven,  with  a  nice  smile,  he  looked 
boyish  in  spite  of  a  big  nose.  I  leaned  on  one  elbow  to 
greet  him,  and,  as  we  shook  hands,  I  saw  that  his  hand, 
and  all  of  his  wrist  which  showed  under  his  shirt-cuff, 
was  covered  with  fine  red  hair,  like  a  delicate  film  of 
copper  lace.  He  smelt  good,  of  some  perfumed  hair- 
wash,  and  Turkish  cigarette  smoke.  His  teeth  were 
slightly  prominent,  and  one  of  the  two  front  ones,  very 
white  and  strong,  lapped  somewhat  over  the  other. 
This  gave  his  long  chin  a  look  as  if  it  receded  a  little. 

I  had  thought  that,  though  I  had  never  met  him, 
probably  he  had  seen  me  act,  since  he  came  back  from 
Europe ;  but  by  the  way  his  eyes  lit  up  as  he  took  my 
hand,  I  guessed  that,  after  all,  he  was  seeing  me  for  the 
first  time.  This  idea  made  me  even  more  curious  than 
before  ;  but  immediately  he  began  to  explain,  stammering 
and  halting,  as  if  he  were  very  shy,  that  he  had  brought 
a  letter  of  introduction. 

"  I  didn't  like  to  send  it  in  ahead  of  me,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause—  er — you  see  —  it's  rather  a  queer  thing  alto- 
gether—  and  I  wanted  to  explain  first,  or — or  anyhow 
get  to  you.  Because  you  might  have  cut  me  off,  you 
know,  without  giving  me  a  chance.  And  I've  come  on 
an  errand.  It's  partly  for  some  one  else,  though  I  —  I 
wanted  to  meet  you  awfully,  of  course." 

I  lay  there  and  looked  at  him  quietly,  without  taking 
my  eyes  off  him,  or  interrupting,  which  I  think  confused 
him  more  than  if  I  had  broken  in  before  he  got  out  his 


To   M.  L.  G.  241 

apology.  But  at  last,  when  he  stopped  for  breath,  or  lo 
find  something  else  to  say,  I  asked  him,  smiling,  if  he 
would  give  me  the  letter  he  had  brought. 

He  looked  actually  frightened.  Like  most  red-haired 
people,  his  skin  was  very  thin,  and  little  beads  of  per- 
spiration came  out  on  his  forehead,  in  a  diamond  powder. 
He  pulled  at  his  collar,  and  settled  his  necktie.  "  First 
I'd  better  tell  you  who  the  letter's  from,  and  explain  a 
little  more,"  he  said. 

I  asked  if  the  letter  would  not  explain  itself;  but  he 
begged  me  not  to  begin  it  yet.  He  tried  to  say  some- 
thing mechanical,  which  evidently  he  had  planned  to  say, 
in  a  programme  he  had  made  out  before  coming.  His 
eyes  grew  large  and  strained,  as  they  fixed  themselves  on 
me,  and  seemed  to  be  fastened  to  mine,  as  if  by  hypnotism. 
Then  he  looked  down  at  his  manicured  nails  and  turned 
a  green  seal  ring,  with  a  crest  on  it,  round  and 
round  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand.  As  he 
lowered  his  eyes,  I  saw  that  his  long  thick  eyelashes 
were  powdered  with  dust,  which  had  sifted  on  to 
them  in  a  train  or  motor-car.  I  cannot  tell  why,  but  this 
effect  was  engaging.  I  suddenly  liked  him.  But  I  did 
not  like  him  nearly  enough  to  forgive  his  sister  for  his 
sake. 

I  thought  of  her,  and  was  glad  to  believe  that  she 
would  be  sorry  if  she  could  see  him  sitting  by  the  side  of 
my  hammock,  in  the  green  light  of  my  vine-screened 
veranda,  that  was  like  a  little  room  for  intimate  friends 
to  talk  in.  She  would  believe  that  I  had  "  got  hold  of 
him." 

I  had  not  "  got  hold  "  of  him  yet ;  but  already  I  was 
making  up  my  mind  that  I  would  do  so,  and  somehow 


242  To   M.  L.  G. 

shame  Margaret  as  she  had  shamed  me.  I  wondered  if 
she  were  with  the  titled  Englishman  to  whom  she  was 
said  to  be  engaged,  and  I  sent  hard,  cold  thoughts  to  her 
across  the  sea. 

I  was  not  surprised  that  Willy  V had  hesitated 

and  found  it  almost  impossible  to  explain  his  errand, 
when  he  had  managed  to  stammer  out  enough  to  make 
it  clear.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  one  of  the  queerest 
errands  that  ever  took  a  man  to  a  woman.  It  was  so 
queer  that  for  a  few  minutes  I  could  hardly  believe  I 
understood ;  but  when  I  began  the  letter,  I  saw  that  there 
was  no  mistake. 

Of  all  the  things  that  have  ever  happened  to  me,  this 
is  the  only  one  which  I  think  is  more  like  an  incident  of 
a  story  than  real  life.  My  meeting  with  you  was  pure 
romance,  romance  which  makes  me  believe  in  a  heaven 
where  all  is  good ;  but  it  was  real,  and  to  other  women, 
perhaps,  their  own  love  stories  seem  as  beautiful,  whether 
just  begun  and  broken  short,  like  mine,  or  melodies  that 
go  on  without  a  jarring  note.  Only  this  one  chapter  of 

my  life,  which  has  to  do  with  meeting  Willy  V , 

might  be  used  in  a  novel  or  a  play.  The  others  would 
not  lend  themselves  to  either. 

"  I'm  not  sure  whether  you  know  I'm  acquainted  with 
,"  he  said,  after  his  preamble. 

I  shook  my  head  without  speaking,  because  it  was  a 

disappointment  to  know  that  he  came  from .  I 

wanted  the  visit  to  be  made  for  a  more  interesting  and, 
perhaps,  romantic  reason,  for  almost  unconsciously  I  was 
starving  for  a  little  romance  just  then. 

Willy  V went  on  to  say  that  he  was  a  "  forty-sec- 
ond "  cousin  of  Mrs. ,  and  that  it  was  through  his 


To   M.  L.  G.  243 

distant  relationship  with  her  that  he  had  met  her  husband. 

"  I  used  to  go  to 's  theatre,  and  hear  about  him 

and  all  that,"  he  explained  hastily,  "  but  we  never  ran 
across  each  other." 

I  said  nothing,  and  Willy  went  on  :  "  You  see,  we  got 
acquainted  in  a  different  way  from  what  we  could  other- 
wise, I  being  a  sort  of  cousin  of  his  wife's,  and  the  only 
one  of  my  people  that  cares  much  about  the  theatre  ;  the 
others  go  in  for  opera  more.  And  we  got  kind  of  inti- 
mate. He  found  out  I  was  in  a  d d  —  I  mean  an 

awful  —  mess,  and  he  helped  me  out  of  it.  I'd  never 
have  thought  what  a  devilish  good  fellow  he  is.  Nothing 
to  get  out  of  me  in  return,  don't  you  know ;  at  least,  he 
didn't  see  that  he  had  then." 

I  was  not  so  sure  of  this,  because had  told  me 

about  his  social  ambitions,  and  I  knew  that  Willy  V 

could  help  him  immensely  in  society.  My  experience 

of exactly  carried  out  what  Mrs.  M had  said 

of  him,  that  "  he  never  did  anything  for  nothing." 

Having  got  so  far,  Willy  had  landed  himself  in  dif- 
ficulties again.  He  floundered,  inquiring  if  I  had  ever 

heard  that  by  a  coincidence  's  surname  and  his 

middle  name  were  the  same.  I  replied  that  I  had  learned 
it  for  the  first  time  in  looking  at  his  card. 

"  Seemed  to  sort  of  draw  us  together,"  he  laughed  un- 
easily. "  Anyhow,  he  was  so  good  to  me,  keeping  me 
out  of  my  governor's  bad  books,  that  I  told  him  he'd 
only  to  ask,  and  I'd  do  anything  he  wanted.  He  said  he 
didn't  want  anything,  but  maybe  he  would  some  day ; 
you  never  could  tell,  and  that  kind  of  talk.  It  was  only 
yesterday  he  reminded  me  of  my  offer,  and  begged  me 
to  run  out  here." 


244  To  M-  L-  G- 

"  As  a  favor  to  him  ?  "  I  suggested.  I  smiled  as  I  put 
the  question,  but  my  heart  began  to  beat  thickly  and 
sickeningly,  as  it  always  did  when  I  was  reminded 

The  poor  young  man  was  afraid  he  had  been  tactless, 
and  mumbled  that,  of  course,  it  was  the  greatest  pleasure 
to  come,  and  he  had  been  dying  to  know  me,  but  had  not 
known  how  to  bring  about  a  meeting.  He  wouldn't  have 
dared  to  call  on  me, "  off  his  own  bat,"  and  now  that  he'd 
seen  exactly  the  kind  of  girl  I  was,  he  would  almost  rather 

go  back,  and  disoblige ,  than  let  me  read  that  letter 

under  his  nose. 

It  was  then  I  began  vaguely  to  suspect  something  of 

what  had  brought  Willy  V to  N tt.  I  insisted 

on  seeing  the  letter,  and  read  it  through  slowly,  without 
once  raising  my  eyes  from  its  pages.  Even  when  I  had 
finished,  I  could  not  look  up  at  once.  I  felt  cold  and  sick 
at  heart,  because  men  could  believe  me  capable  of  con- 
senting to  such  a  bargain.  Yet  I  did  not  know  what  an- 
swer to  give  Willy  V .  I  wanted  to  find  some  way 

of  keeping  him  near  me,  in  order  to  frighten  and  hurt 
Margaret,  and  at  the  same  time  I  longed  savagely  to  send 

him  back  to with  some  terrible  message,  which 

neither  of  the  two  could  ever  forget. 

As  I  lay  there,  with  wild  ideas  racing  through  my  head 

like  the  little  horses  of  a  merry-go-round,  Willy  V 

sat  leaning  anxiously  towards  me,  one  arm,  in  gray 
flannel,  resting  on  the  veranda  rail,  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  nervously  drumming  a  tune  on  the  wood. 
The  tap,  tap  made  my  nerves  twang,  and  prevented  me 
from  concentrating  my  mind  on  the  subject  of  the  letter. 
I  could  not  help  wondering  what  tune  he  was  playing, 


To   M.  L.  G.  245 

and  mechanically  I  tried  to  fit  the  tapping  to  several  airs 
it  might  suit. 

At  last  I  said,  "  Please  don't  do  that ! " 

He  stopped  so  suddenly  that  I  glanced  quickly  up  at 
him.  Our  eyes  met.  His  were  suffused  with  some  emo- 
tion, perhaps  embarrassment.  I  did  not  know  why  I  was 
impelled  to  ask,  "  What  tune  was  that  you  were  play- 
ing ?  "  But  I  had  to  do  it. 

He  blushed  painfully,  as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  a 
shameful  act.  I  was  sorrier  for  him  than  ever ;  but  not 
sorry  enough  yet  to  let  him  alone. 

"I  —  I  think  —  I'm  afraid  it  was  Yankee  Doodle,"  he 
stammered. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  said,  reproachfully. 

He  was  almost  ready  to  cry.  "  It's  the  only  one  I 
know,"  he  pleaded. 

This  made  me  laugh,  and  he  was  only  too  thankful  to 
take  up  the  cue.  We  both  laughed  hysterically,  and 
could  hardly  stop.  But  when  at  last  we  controlled  our- 
selves, suddenly  becoming  preternaturally  solemn,  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  Seeing  his  wet,  tears  sprang  to 
mine,  and  poured  over  my  cheeks.  He  was  deeply  dis- 
tressed, and  stammered  broken  apologies  and  consolations. 
I  had  cried  before  other  men  —  stage-managers  who  had 
scolded  me  in  old  days,  or  who  would  not  understand 
what  I  wanted  at  rehearsals,  in  later  years ;  once  or  twice 

I  had  cried  before  Herman  C and ;  but  no 

man  who  saw  me  weep  had  ever  taken  my  tears  so 
seriously  as  Willy  V did. 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't !  "  he  implored.  "  I'll  go  on  my 
knees  to  you,  if  you'll  stop.  I  deserve  to  be  killed.  I'd 
do  anything  to  comfort  you  !  "  His  voice  sounded  very 


246  To   M.  L.  G. 

boyish,  and  there  was  more  diamond  powder  than  ever 
on  his  forehead,  which  looked  like  a  bright  embroidery 
on  a  red  background,  as  I  saw  it  through  a  thick  blur  of 
my  own  tears. 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  in  the  letter  ?  "  I  asked,  when 
I  had  dried  my  eyes. 

"  Not  exactly,"  he  answered.  "  Perhaps  there  are 
things  kept  back  from  me." 

Cruelly,  to  punish  him  for  coming,  though  I  was  not 
sorry  that  he  had  come,  I  forced  him  to  tell  me  what  he 

did  know.  I  tore  out  of  him  the  fact  that had 

said  he  was  "  in  for  an  almighty  row  with  his  wife,"  and 
that  there  might  be  a  divorce,  in  which  my  name  would 
be  mixed  up,  unless  Willy  would  "  help  him  out  of  the 
mud."  Ashamed  as  the  wretched  boy  already  was  of  the 
part  he  had  agreed  to  play,  I  could  read  between  the  lines 
of  his  admission  that  he  had  been  flattered  by  the  re- 
quest, which  had  made  him  feel  a  man  of  the  world, 
launched  upon  a  great  adventure  with  an  actress. 

What had  asked  of  him  was  to  call  on  me  at 

N tt,  to  present  the  letter  in  person,  and  to  be  ex- 
tremely polite.  The  coincidence  of  middle  name  and 
surname  being  the  same  had  put  an  idea  into  the  latter's 
ingenious  head.  He  thought  that,  if  Willy  and  I  would 
consent,  it  might  be  made  to  appear  that  it  was  Willy  who 
had  spent  the  fatal  week-end  at  the  N tt  hotel,  sign- 
ing his  middle  name  in  the  register,  instead  of  his  last,  as 

a  precaution  against  publicity.  If  Mrs. could  be 

made  to  believe  that  the  adventure  had  been  Willy's,  she 
would  have  nothing  against  her  husband ;  and  apparently 
the  desired  story  had  already  been  told  to  her.  She  was  still 
in  the  hospital,  but  insisted  on  questioning  Willy,  as  soon 


To   M.  L.  G.  247 

as  she  could  be  allowed  to  see  a  visitor.  It  was  for  this 

reason  that  Willy  had  been  hurriedly  sent  to  me.  

dared  not  trust  the  fluffy-headed  young  man  to  describe 

me,  or  the  hotel  at  N tt,  or  my  cottage,  or  answer 

any  other  embarrassing  questions  that  might  be  asked, 
unless  he  had  really  met  and  talked  to  me  at  my  cottage. 
Besides,  it  was  necessary  for  success  that  Willy  and  I 
should  talk  matters  over,  and  arrange  a  plan  of  campaign 
together. 

Willy  had  been  induced,  through  gratitude  and  flat- 
tered vanity,  to  consent  to  the  scheme.  I  was  to  be 
terrified  by  the  threat  that  I  might  be  dragged  into  a  dis- 
graceful divorce  case,  and  bribed  in  addition  by  the  offer 
of  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  cash.  These  two  last  in- 
ducements had  not  been  mentioned  to  Willy ;  and  when 
I  prevailed  over  his  reluctance,  and  made  him  read  the 
letter,  his  tanned,  red  face  grew  so  pale  that  the  freckles 
stood  out  on  it  like  blotches  of  yellow  ochre.  He  was 

furious  with  for  making  a  catspaw  of  him,  for 

asking  him  to  carry  such  a  letter,  not  knowing  the  con- 
tents, and  piteously  anxious  that  I  should  believe  in  his 
innocence. 

"  Of  course,  you  wouldn't  take  money,"  he  repeated 
over  and  over,  as  if  he  were  afraid  that  I  had  not  heard 

him.  "  I  only  thought  that,  to  get  out  of  a 

scrape  with  his  wife,  you  might  go  into  the  thing.  And 
it  was  mighty  nice  for  me,  having  such  a  chance  given 
me  to  meet  you.  I  see  now,  you  can't  possibly  do  what 
he  wants." 

"  Wait.  Let  me  think,"  I  said.  I  shut  my  eyes  to 
ponder  the  matter  over,  and  Willy  sat  motionless,  pain- 
fully rigid,  without  even  letting  his  chair  creak,  as  if  I 


248  To   M.  L.  G. 

had  been  ill,  and  he  were  watching  over  me  while  I  slept 
through  a  crisis. 

In  my  life  I  had  done  a  great  deal  that  was  wrong, 
and  foolish,  and  bold,  and  perhaps  even  selfish  and 

greedy ;  but  I  felt  sure  that  never  had  I  given 

cause  to  believe  I  was  a  girl  to  accept  his  twenty  thou- 
sand dollar  bribe.  A  little  while  ago,  if  he  had  ventured 
such  a  suggestion,  I  should  have  been  blind  and  deaf  to 
everything  except  my  rage  against  him.  But  now  I  was 
only  coldly  disgusted.  His  secret  marriage,  and  his  wish 
to  have  me  stay  on  at  the  flat  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, had  shown  me  exactly  what  he  was.  There  were 
no  surprises  left  as  to  his  lack  of  scruples.  I  loathed 
him  a  good  deal  more  than  before,  that  was  all.  But 
after  the  first  impulse  of  anger,  when  I  longed  to  punish 
him  in  some  way,  I  was  not  sure  that  I  would  refuse  to 
enter  the  plot.  I  was  sure  only  that  I  would  not  take 
money.  I  think  I  would  not  have  had  a  dollar  on  such 
terms  if  I  had  been  starving ;  but  I  was  very  far  from 
starving.  I  had  enough  to  go  on  with  for  a  long  time, 
if  I  used  what  I  had  saved  out  of  my  salary  without 
thinking  of  the  future ;  and  I  was  too  true  a  daughter  of 
Boy  and  Dearie  to  waste  any  anxious  thoughts  on  years 
to  come. 

I  had  two  motives  for  thinking  over  that  part  of  the 
proposal  which  did  not  concern  money.  They  were  not 
high  motives,  but  at  least  they  were  not  mercenary. 
One  was,  that  to  be  brought  into  a  divorce  suit  would  do 
me  great  harm,  not  so  much  in  New  York  as  in  quiet 
towns  of  the  West,  where  respectable,  churchgoing 
people  went  to  the  theatre  only  if  they  approved  the 
morals  of  the  actors.  I  was  very  popular  in  such  towns, 


To   M.  L.  G.  249 

since  I  had  become  a  "  star,"  and  girls  turned  out  in 
crowds  for  my  matinees.  In  spite  of  the  rumor  that  had 

set  Margaret  V against  making  my  acquaintance, 

there  had  never  been  any  wide-spread  scandal  about  me 

in  connection  with  .  In  his  selfish  wish  to 

protect  himself,  he  had  incidentally  protected  me  as  well, 
and  I  did  not  want  newspapers,  which  had  been  kind  so 
far,  to  print  my  name  in  large  letters  as  the  respondent 
in  a  divorce  case.  Besides,  for  the  sake  of  punishing 

Margaret  V ,  far  more  than  because  I  liked  Willy,  I 

was  willing  to  be  gossiped  about  a  little  with  her  brother. 
Being  very  observant,  and  flattering  myself  that  I  could 
read  a  man's  character  at  sight,  I  was  sure  already  that  I 
would  be  safe  with  him.  I  saw  that,  though  not  highly 
intelligent,  he  was  chivalrous,  and  singularly  unspoiled 
for  a  young  man  in  his  position ;  and  I  thought  that  by 
and  by  I  should  be  able  to  do  almost  anything  with  him. 
I  was  quite  undecided  yet  what  I  would  choose  to  do ; 
and  the  uncertainty  interested  me. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes,  at  last,  I  found  Willy's  fixed 
on  me.  He  apologized  for  staring,  and  said  something 
foolish  about  my  eyelashes.  I  had  half  expected  this  ; 
for  I  am  not  sure  that  I  had  not  shut  my  eyes,  and  kept 
them  shut  for  so  long,  on  purpose  to  let  him  notice  my 
eyelashes. 

The  only  fault  you  ever  accused  me  of  was  being  vain 
of  their  length,  and  liking  to  have  them  admired.  But 
you  laughed  when  you  took  me  to  task.  I  think  my 
childish  vanity,  which  I  could  not  deny,  softened  your 
heart  to  me  a  little,  and  made  you  feel  that  I  was  very 
human  ;  for  you  had  such  an  exalted  opinion  of  my 
qualities  !  I  thought  that  day,  with  a  stab  of  pain,  if 


250  To   M.  L.  G. 

you  could  guess  my  real  faults,  how  your  indulgent  smile 
would  change  —  the  dear,  kind  smile  a  man  gives  the 
woman  he  is  beginning  to  care  for,  when  she  seems  par- 
ticularly feminine. 

I  said  abruptly  to  Willy  that,  of  course, must 

have  told  him  everything  about  our  past,  or  he  would  not 
have  come  to  me  on  such  an  errand.  Painfully  red,  the 
boy  tried  to  say  no ;  that  he  did  not  understand  what  I 
meant  about  the  past  ;  but  his  face  betrayed  him. 

"  Please  don't  lie  to  me,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice,  sitting 
up  in  the  hammock.  Then  I  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face,  with  my  head  high,  and  laid  my  hand,  which  had 
grown  very  cold,  though  the  day  was  hot,  on  the  back  of 
his  hand,  that  still  rested  on  the  railing.  Impulsively  he 
grasped  mine  with  both  his.  I  liked  the  way  he  did 
this,  and  did  not  try  to  draw  away,  but  sat  still,  looking 
at  him  steadily. 

"  I  cant  lie  to  you  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  That  beast  did 
say  things,  and  I  was  ass  enough  to  believe  some  of 
them.  But,  of  course,  I  don't  now.  I've  a  mind  to  kill 
him." 

"  He  told  you  the  truth,"  I  said.  And  then  more 
tears  came.  They  were  not  false  tears,  neither  were  they 
true  in  the  best  sense.  It  was  not  from  sorrow  for  my 
past  that  I  cried,  but  in  sheer  emotion,  and  the  growing 
thrill  of  a  situation  which  always  brought  tears  to  my 
eyes,  even  if  I  were  reading  a  book  or  watching  a  play 
on  the  stage. 

I  could  see  that  Willy  V was  falling  under  a  spell. 

Never  before  had  I  tried  so  deliberately  to  exert  power 
over  any  man  except  on  the  day  when  I  heard  that 
* was  married,  and  again  when  he  followed  me  to 


To   M.  L.  G.  251 

N tt ;  but  I  felt  that  there  was  a  fascination  in  it,  and 

in  succeeding  I  had  almost  a  contempt  for  Willy,  because 
it  was  so  easy  to  win  him. 

I  thought  his  eyes,  which  could  not  break  loose  from 
mine,  no  longer  looked  nice  and  boyish,  but  silly ;  yet  I 
was  glad,  for  I  knew  that  men's  eyes  always  had  that 
look  when  they  were  falling  in  love.  I  had  not  yet 
wanted  other  men  to  be  in  love  with  me,  except  on  prin- 
ciple, thinking  of  them  not  as  individuals,  but  as  Man. 

Yet  now  I  wanted  to  have  Margaret  V 's  brother  for 

my  slave. 

"  Are  you  sorry  for  me  ?  "  I  asked  gently. 

"  God  knows  I  am.  I  want  to  murder  that  beast," 
the  boy  stammered.  I  saw  that  he  could  hardly  speak. 
In  all  his  life,  he  had  perhaps  never  found  himself  in  so 
serious  a  situation  as  this. 

"  But  you  knew  before.  And  you  were  grateful  to 
him  !  " 

"  I  didn't  know  you.     That  makes  all  the  difference." 

No  woman,  still  more  no  girl,  could  have  helped  soft- 
ening towards  him  at  that. 

I  felt  that  I  could  like  Willy  quite  warmly,  and  that 
whatever  I  might  have  to  do  to  win  him  thoroughly 
would  not  be  a  disagreeable  task.  But  suddenly  I  made 
up  my  mind  firmly  that  the  game  I  was  beginning  to 
play  should  be  for  high  stakes.  I  seemed  always  to  be 
playing  games  with  Fate,  at  this  time ;  but  I  had  grown 

so  hard  since had  deceived  me  over  his  marriage 

that  I  thought  of  them  as  if  I  were  merely  acting  some 
new  part,  more  or  less  distasteful,  yet  necessary. 

Tactfully,  I  recited  a  few  chapters  of  my  life,  since 
•  gave  me  my  first  contract,  not  as  I  have  recited 


252  To   M.  L.  G. 

them  to  you,  but  painting  myself  as  much  an  innocent 

angel  as  possible, as  an  unscrupulous  villain.  I 

told  no  actual  falsehoods ;  but  I  knew  how  different  my 
story  must  sound  from  the  version  Willy  had  heard  from 

.  As  I  went  on,  I  worked  myself  up  to  a  high 

pitch  of  emotion  over  my  own  sufferings  and  wrongs ; 
and  before  I  finished  Willy  was  listening  with  his  face 
hidden.  At  last,  when  I  ceased  speaking,  he  bent  for- 
ward, seized  both  my  hands  and  kissed  them.  He,  poor 
boy,  magnetized  by  my  misleading  eloquence,  said  that  I 
was  pure  as  snow,  purer  than  girls  who  had  never  been 
tempted. 

For  a  few  minutes  I  actually  believed  him.  I  forgot 
the  game  I  had  begun  to  play.  I  throbbed  with  the 
remembered  agony  of  my  spoiled  and  broken  youth. 
I  clung  to  him,  repaid  for  all  I  had  suffered  through 
Margaret.  I  thought  of  myself  as  a  fallen  angel,  dragged 
down  from  some  shining  height  where  I  might  have 
stood.  But  suddenly  I  saw,  with  the  clearness  of  a  cine- 
matograph picture,  myself  in  Mrs.  F 's  flat,  dancing 

wildly  round  with  Julia  and  Kitty,  all  three  of  us  un- 
dressed, our  hair  flying  around  bare  shoulders,  as  we 
sang  with  joy  over  our  road  engagement  together.  This 
reminded  me  forcibly  that  I  had  never  stood  upon  a 
height.  Yet  the  remembrance  did  not  prevent  me  from 
trying  to  fascinate  Margaret  V 's  brother. 

Willy  asked  if  I  would  accept  him  for  my  knight,  and 
I  said  yes,  gratefully.  I  told  him  that  I  needed  a  friend, 
and  let  my  voice  tremble  as  I  spoke.  In  the  end  we 
shook  hands  upon  our  friendship. 

He  did  not  go  back  to  New  York  that  night.  He 
stayed  on  for  days  at  the  hotel  near  my  cottage,  where 


To   M.  L.  G.  253 

had  stopped.  But  I  was  horribly  clever  in  those 

days,  swept  onward  by  some  hitherto  unknown  tide  of 
worldly  wisdom,  whose  first  ripple  had  crawled  to  my 

feet  when  confessed  to  his  marriage.  I  would 

not  consent  to  see  Willy  often ;  but  when  I  did  allow 
him  to  come  to  me,  I  was  kind  with  a  gentle  aloofness 
that  helped  me  with  the  new  part  I  was  learning  for  next 
season.  And  the  part  helped  me  to  succeed  with  Willy. 

For  three  days  he  was  very  good.  He  kept  bravely 
to  our  compact  of  friendship,  and  was  my  knight,  but 
nothing  more.  On  the  fourth  day  he  told  me  that  he 
loved  me,  and  seemed  to  think  that  I  would  be  surprised. 
That  belief  was  a  tribute  to  my  acting. 

I  did  not  say  that  I  could  never  love  him,  but  I  told 
him  that  he  had  better  go,  because  I  was  sure  he  did  not 
really  care  for  me.  When  he  asked,  as  I  knew  he  would, 
why  I  said  that,  I  answered  that  his  love  was  selfish.  I 
did  not  want  to  hurt  him,  I  went  on  (which  was  true 
enough,  though  I  thought  of  myself  first) ;  but  if  he 
wished  to  keep  me  in  his  life,  there  was  only  one  way. 
I  had  made  a  terrible  mistake,  when  I  was  too  young  to 
realize  what  it  meant,  and  if  he  loved  me,  he  would  not 
wish  me  to  make  another.  He  must  go  abroad  and  for- 
get all  about  me  as  soon  as  he  could,  or  else  —  he  must 
ask  me  to  be  his  wife. 

I  never  knew,  and  never  will  know,  whether  he  spoke 
the  truth,  or  only  wished  to  save  my  pride;  but  he 
vowed  that  he  had  never  thought  of  anything  else  but 
marriage.  He  pretended  to  be,  or  was,  indignant  be- 
cause I  had  believed  him  capable  of  any  other  intention. 
There  was  but  one  obstacle,  he  hurried  to  explain.  He 
had  no  money  to  live  on,  except  what  his  father  allowed 


254  To  M.  L.  G. 

him.  The  family  did  not  like  the  stage,  and  had  always 
been  afraid  that  he  might  marry  an  actress.  They  would 
not  welcome  me  as  his  wife,  and  he  was  not  "  smart 
enough  to  earn  his  own  living."  We  must  wait  two 
years,  till  he  was  twenty-five,  before  having  our  marriage 
announced  publicly,  for  then  he  would  come  into  several 
hundred  thousand  dollars  which  his  grandmother  had 
left  to  him  without  any  conditions.  But  he  begged  me 
to  marry  him  secretly  at  once.  He  pleaded  that  he 
loved  me  too  much  to  wait,  and  he  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  my  "  travelling  about  the  country  with  a  lot  of 
good-looking  actors  making  love  to  me,"  unless  he  were 
sure  that  I  belonged  to  him. 

I  ought  to  have  been  passionately  grateful  to  any 

man,  perhaps  more  especially  to  one  in  Willy  V 's 

world,  for  shutting  his  eyes  to  my  past,  and  wanting 
to  have  me  for  his  wife.  But  I  hardly  thought  of 
gratitude,  and  the  idea  of  marrying  Willy  unless  his 

sister  and  could  both  know  that  I  was  his  wife 

did  not  please  me  at  all.  My  one  great  reason  for 
wanting  to  marry  him  was  to  "  pay  "  Margaret  for  her 
insult.  And,  incidentally,  it  would  have  soothed  my 

hurt  vanity  to  have  see  that  his  aristocratic 

messenger  had,  without  a  struggle,  become  my  humble 
slave. 

I  refused  to  marry  Willy  until  his  people  could  be 
told.  I  said  that  if  we  were  talked  about  together 
nobody  would  ever  believe  that  I  was  his  wife,  and  that 
I  should  be  very  unhappy.  All  I  would  consent  to  was 
an  engagement,  and  even  that  only  provided  he  wrote  to 
his  sister,  if  no  one  else  in  the  family ;  also  that  he  told 
everything. 


To   M.  L.  G.  255 

It  was  an  infatuation,  and  Willy  did  exactly  as  I 
wished  without  any  sign  of  the  reluctance  which  I 
suspected  him  of  feeling.  I  made  him  show  me  an 
answer  that  came  to  him  from  Margaret,  in  England, 
wherein  she  said  that  if  he  married  such  a  girl  it  would 

ruin  her  prospects.  Lord would  probably  object 

to  having  me  for  his  future  sister-in-law.  Willy  assured 

me  eagerly  that  this  was  "  all  d d  nonsense."  Most 

English  lords  married  chorus  girls !  And  he  implored 
me  "  not  to  mind."  He  did  not  guess  that  I  was  glad, 
and  that  I  had  got  exactly  what  I  wanted. 

But  with  this  mean  gratification  of  my  spite  against 
Margaret  V ,  all  the  pleasure  went  out  of  my  en- 
gagement. I  was  not  sorry  that,  when  's  wifs 

started  a  scandal  about  us,  Willy  was  strong  enough 
and  chivalrous  enough  to  tell  his  friends  the  truth.  His 
father  was  deeply  offended,  and  sent  telegrams  from 
Europe,  where  he  had  gone  to  fetch  Margaret ;  but  the 
boy  stood  by  me  loyally.  He  was  "  interviewed  "  and 
I  was  "  interviewed."  A  romance  was  made  of  the 
affair  by  the  newspapers,  for  it  was  still  the  dead  season, 
and  journalists  had  not  much  to  talk  about.  On  the 
strength  of  my  engagement  to  the  son  of  a  rich  man, 
well  known  in  society,  several  managers  made  me  offers ; 
and  that,  at  least,  was  a  good  thing  for  my  career,  as  I 

had  sent  back  my  new  part  to when  I  wrote  to 

refuse  his  money,  and  I  enclosed  my  contract  torn  in 
two  pieces.  It  was  childish  and  sentimental  to  do  that, 
but  I  was  both  at  twenty,  in  spite  of  the  experience 
which  had  made  me  very  old  in  some  ways. 

Still,  in  spite  of  his  goodness  —  almost  touching 
nobility  —  and  the  advantages  it  gave  me,  I  was  so 


256  To   M.  L.  G. 

unbearably  bored  by  Willy  that  when  we  had  been 
engaged  for  three  weeks,  I  knew  I  could  never  marry 
him.  It  seemed  to  me  that  almost  any  other  life  would 
be  more  endurable  than  an  existence  in  which  I  should 
have  to  be  with  him  every  day,  perhaps  all  day. 

Although,  when  we  came  to  know  each  other,  we 
had  no  tastes  in  common,  and  I  found  him  irritatingly 
dull,  I  might  have  gone  on  contentedly  enough  for 
a  while,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  work.  A  splendid 
piece  of  luck  came  my  way,  the  best  that  had  ever 
happened  to  me,  up  to  that  time.  I  received  an  offer 
of  a  part  from  one  of  the  best  managers,  not  only  in 
New  York,  but  in  America,  a  man  who  was  as  upright 
as  he  was  intelligent.  His  faith  in  my  talent  was  an 
inspiration  to  me.  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  my  new 
work.  Willy  ceased  to  exist,  except  as  an  annoying 
spoke  in  the  wheel  of  my  progress.  I  forgot  all  he  had 
tried  to  do  for  me,  and  wished  that  I  had  never  met 
him.  I  did  not  break  the  engagement,  because  I  was 
thinking  too  intensely  of  my  part  on  the  stage  to  give 
thought  to  my  part  in  real  life.  It  was  too  much 
trouble  to  have  "  scenes  "  outside  the  theatre,  and  so  I 
let  things  drift  on  as  they  were.  But  I  made  a  dozen 
new  excuses  each  week  not  to  spend  any  time  with 
Willy.  I  was  too  busy,  or  I  was  not  well,  or  some- 
thing unexpected  had  happened  which  called  for  another 
rehearsal. 

The  part  I  had  been  given  to  act  that  winter  was  an 
experiment  for  the  manager,  and  critics  said  he  had  been 
plucky  to  try  it ;  but  it  was  a  success.  He  believed  in 
me  as  an  emotional  actress,  and  trusted  me  with  work 
not  unworthy  of  real  greatness.  The  woman  I  had  to 


To   M.  L.  G.  257 

portray  was  a  good  woman,  sorely  tempted.  Looking 
on  life  from  her  point  of  view  (as  an  actress  must  if  the 
heart  of  the  audience  is  to  beat  with  her  heart)  seemed 
to  open  my  eyes  to  things  all  around  me  which  had  been 
invisible.  Since  then  I  have  learned  a  small  something 
of  the  thousand  sights  and  sounds  which  our  eyes  and 
ears  are  not  fitted  to  record.  That  part  was  for  me  like 
a  magic  touch  on  closed  lids  and  deaf  ears.  Just  a 
slight  touch,  not  potent  to  make  me  actually  see  or  hear ; 
but  strong  enough  to  fill  me  with  a  faint  premonition  of 
ethereal  wonders  behind  a  veil.  I  cannot  describe  the 
stirring  of  my  spirit  in  any  other  way.  But  at  first,  the 
vague,  sweet  pangs  I  suffered,  without  knowing  what 
they  meant,  gave  me  a  restless  desire  for  relief  of  some 
sort,  it  hardly  mattered  what.  I  thought  that  I  wanted 
a  new  sensation,  and  began  to  search  for  it,  though 
idly  and  without  definite  purpose.  It  was  a  danger- 
ous state  of  mind  for  a  girl  of  my  temperament  and  ex- 
perience. 

New  York  society  was  being  rather  foolish  about  a 
Russian  notability  that  season.  One  night  he  came  to 
our  theatre  with  some  American  friends,  and  sat  in  the 
stage  box.  In  my  best  moods,  I  forgot  the  audience ; 
but  I  could  not  help  seeing  the  Russian.  He  forced  him- 
self on  my  attention  by  leaning  conspicuously  forward 
in  one  of  my  "big"  scenes,  and  clapping  his  hands 
enthusiastically  at  a  moment  when  applause  could  be 
meant  only  for  me.  I  pretended  not  to  notice;  but 
every  one  who  was  on  the  stage  at  the  time  quizzed  me 
about  it  when  the  scene  was  over.  I  was  teased  about 
my  "  conquest,"  and  bets  were  made  that  the  Russian 
would  ask  to  be  introduced. 


258  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  laughed,  but  I  was  a  little  excited  ;  and  I  should  have 
been  disappointed  if  those  bets  had  been  lost.  For  an 
instant  I  had  met  the  man's  eyes,  passionate  and  magnetic, 
yet  at  the  same  time  insolent  and  proud.  I  realized  that 
there  was  power  in  him,  and  I  was  haunted  by  the  wish 
to  measure  mine  against  his.  Something  said  in  me, 
"  Here  is  the  new  sensation  you  wanted  !  " 

Let  me  tell  you  quickly  that  concerning  the  Russian 
there  is  nothing  I  need  be  ashamed  to  confess ;  nothing 
worse  than  vanity  and  silliness.  I  could  not  go  on  with- 
out saying  this  to  you,  though  perhaps,  again,  it  is  only 
vanity  of  another  kind  which  makes  me  impatient  to  put 
myself  right  with  you  in  the  few  places  where  it  can 
fairly  be  done. 

The  Russian  did  ask  to  meet  me  that  same  night. 

I  knew  slightly  his  principal  hostess,  who  went  con- 
descendingly sometimes  to  a  rather  Bohemian  house 
where  I  often  spent  my  Sunday  evenings.  The  lady  was 
one  of  those  New  York  women  who  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  actresses  as  she  would  have  gone  to  the  Zoo  to 
feed  some  amusing  little  animals,  and  no  doubt  she 
thought  that  she  was  paying  me  an  astounding  com- 
pliment in  sending  round  a  scribbled  line  to  invite  me  to 
supper  at  Sherry's  after  the  theatre.  She  added  that  her 
Russian  guest  had  expressed  the  wish  to  know  me. 

An  invitation  from  her  was,  in  New  York,  almost  like 
a  Royal  command  in  Europe,  especially  when  put  as  she 
put  it.  I  was  childishly  pleased,  for  no  such  great  per- 
sonage had  ever  so  flattered  me  before ;  but  I  saw  how 
confident  the  lady  was  that  I  would  accept  with  humble 
joy,  and  I  determined  to  surprise  her.  I  wrote  back  a 
hurried  note  on  my  own  paper,  which  I  kept  in  my  dress- 


To   M.  L.  G.  259 

ing-room,  saying  that  though  I  appreciated  the  compli- 
ment, my  part  was  too  trying  for  me  to  accept  any  invi- 
tations after  the  theatre.  I  greatly  regretted  that  I  could 
not  make  an  exception  to  my  rule,  even  in  her  favor. 

That  night  I  could  hardly  sleep  for  wondering  whether 
the  Russian  would  be  too  angry  to  try  again,  or  whether 
my  refusal  to  make  myself  cheap  would  raise  my  value  in 
his  eyes.  As  for  the  lady,  I  did  not  much  care  what  she 
felt,  for  at  the  moment  no  one  was  of  importance  to  me 
except  the  Russian,  whose  insolent,  passionate  eyes 
colored  my  thoughts. 

Luckily,  or  unluckily,  he  was  still  determined  to  meet 
me,  and  three  days  later  we  were  introduced  to  each  other 
at  an  "  At  Home,"  which  the  same  lady  gave.  He  did 
all  he  could  to  interest  me  in  himself,  and  there  was  a  strain 
of  wildness  in  his  nature  which  appealed  to  the  same 
strain  in  mine,  or  I  thought  so.  His  moodiness  and 
savage  sadness  alternating  with  fits  of  reckless  fun,  rough 
as  an  untrained  boy's,  had  a  kind  of  fascination  for  me  as 
I  learned  to  know  him,  especially  as  he  did  not  show  the 
hidden  tiger  in  him  to  every  one.  I  was  tremendously 
flattered  by  his  admiration,  and  though  his  curious 
magnetism  never  touched  the  higher  part  of  me,  I  was 
tempted  by  him  almost  to  the  breaking-point.  The  two 
selves  in  me  fought  for  and  against  him,  and  the  fight 
was  the  harder  because  I  was  without  moral  scruples,  ex- 
cept an  instinct,  which  was  like  a  voice  whispering  in  an 
unknown  language.  If  I  had  been  at  heart  immoral,  the 
rest  of  my  life  would  have  been  different,  and  you  and  I 
might  never  have  met.  But  I  was  only  amoral.  I  was 
pagan. 

I  knew  precisely  what  it  was  that  held  me  back,  when 


260  To   M.  L.  G. 

one  side  of  me  was  crying  out  to  know  the  "  new  sensa- 
tion "  to  the  full.  It  was  not  gratitude  or  loyalty  to  Willy 

V ,  for  the  dull  monotony  of  him  (the  all  there  was 

of  him)  had  tired  me  out.  Mentally,  I  had  already  swept 
him  aside,  and  could  no  longer  even  find  a  mischievous 
spice  in  making  him  jealous.  The  power  of  resistance  in 
me  came  from  my  certainty  that  the  Russian  wanted  me 
precisely  as  an  Indian  wants  a  scalp.  Even  in  his  most 
passionate  moments,  I  felt  that  behind  the  hot  beating  of 
his  heart  a  cold  intelligence,  like  a  spider's,  was  await- 
'  ing  the  moment  when  I  would  be  caught.  I  felt  that, 
though  perhaps  he  was  not  fully  aware  of  it  himself,  he 
had  no  doubt  of  conquering  me  in  the  end,  as  he  had 
conquered  others.  And  with  all  the  strength  I  had  I 
determined  to  disappoint  him.  That  was  my  secret 
weapon  :  a  woman's  pride  of  self  against  a  man's.  And 
the  woman  won. 

The  Russian  left  me  at  last  in  a  rage,  and  left  New 
York  the  next  day.  He  went  to  the  West,  and  enjoyed 
great  success  there  among  women  ;  but  I  did  not  regret 
him  when  he  was  gone.  More  and  more  I  congratulated 
myself  on  having  beaten  him.  I  thought  of  his  ances- 
tors, who  had  tortured  and  murdered  their  serfs  ;  and  I 
thought  of  mine,  who  had,  perhaps,  been  no  higher  than 
those  serfs,  and  my  victory  over  the  strong  man  was  very 
sweet.  Apart  from  the  pleasure  I  had  in  my  acting,  I 
had  never  known  anything  quite  like  that  sensation  in 
my  life.  And  the  affair  had  consequences  outside  the  in- 
ward struggle  and  triumph.  The  gossip  of  people  and 
of  one  or  two  newspapers  brought  Willy's  father  to  visit 
me  for  the  first  time. 

I  had  seen  his  photograph  in  magazines,  and  at  Willy's 


To  M.  L.  G.  261 

rooms,  where  I  had  gone  occasionally,  chaperoned  dis- 
creetly by  Jane ;  but  I  had  never  seen  him  before. 

He  called  at  the  apartment  house  where  I  had  a  flat, 
without  sending  word  in  advance,  but  timing  his  arrival 
at  an  hour  when  I  was  almost  certain  to  be  at  home. 
His  card  was  brought  to  me,  and  I  thought  that  it 
would  interest  me  to  meet  him.  Instinct  told  me  what 
he  had  come  to  say,  and  it  was  not  deceiving.  It  sel- 
dom is. 

He  took  the  line  that  for  Willy's  sake  he  had  tolerated 
our  engagement,  though  from  the  first  he  had  strongly 
disapproved  ;  that  he  had  always  hoped,  if  he  did  not 
oppose  his  son,  Willy  might  tire  of  me  eventually.  But 
now  I  was  bringing  disgrace  on  the  family  name.  He 
had  come  to  threaten,  and  that  gave  me  a  chance  for  a 
situation.  I  have  told  you  that  I  had  still  a  childish 
pleasure  in  being  the  centre  of  a  picture,  on  the  stage  or 

off.  I  informed  Mr.  V that  nothing  would  induce 

me  to  marry  his  son,  that  I  had  kept  the  engagement 
dragging  on  only  because  I  was  sorry  to  hurt  Willy's 
feelings  ;  but  now  I  had  the  excuse  to  break  it,  and  he 
might  consider  it  broken  from  that  moment.  The  man 
seemed  much  surprised. 

Although  his  daughter  was  handsome,  and  Willy  was 
considered  a  great  match,  the  father  was  a  common-look- 
ing person,  and  had  a  common  manner.  As  I  talked,  I 
felt  myself  immensely  superior  to  him,  though  he  was  a 
power  in  the  financial  world,  and  I  was  nobody.  To  feel 
this  gave  me  a  queer  sense  of  intoxication,  as  if  I  had 
drunk  wine,  and  it  had  gone  to  my  head. 

Not  many  days  after,  I  saw  him  again,  at  a  restaurant, 
lunching  with  a  financial  magnate.  Their  table  was  not 


262  To   M.  L.  G. 

far  from  mine.  Willy's  father  was  eating  an  egg.  His 
lower  jaw  was  somewhat  prominent  and  his  upper  lip  was 
short.  As  he  ate  the  egg,  hurriedly,  the  inside  of  his 
large  mouth  was  like  a  yellow  cavern.  Suddenly  he 
caught  my  eye,  as  it  was  fixed  on  him  in  fascinated  dis- 
gust. He  flushed  a  dark  red,  and  suddenly  looked  very 
humble  in  his  absurd  embarrassment.  He  was  a  man 
hard  as  iron  in  business,  and  had  no  mercy  on  those 
whose  interests  were  against  his  own.  I  have  always 
been  glad  that  I  looked  at  him,  and  made  him  flush 
when  he  ate  the  egg. 

You  may  remember  my  telling  you  that  "  in  prehis- 
toric days  I  was  engaged  to  Willy  V for  a  few 

months."  It  was  when  you  and  A and  I  were  mo- 
toring to  Farnham,  and  broke  down.  We  stopped  at  an 
inn,  while  the  chauffeur  did  things  to  the  car,  and  you 
and  I  spent  the  time  until  tea  was  ready  in  turning  over 
the  pages  of  an  illustrated  paper.  In  the  paper  there 
was  a  snapshot  of  Willy  at  his  sister's  wedding.  You 
looked  a  question  when  I  spoke,  but  asked  none,  and  I 
said  no  more.  I  was  even  sorry  I  had  said  as  much. 
There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  tell  you  anything  at 
all  about  myself  then,  and  I  spoke  on  impulse.  After- 
wards I  felt  guilty,  because  Willy  and  his  people  were  so 
much  above  me  socially,  in  America,  that  having  been 
engaged  to  him  might  have  made  you  believe  me  in  a 
better  position  than  I  really  was.  But  it  was  a  matter 
that  could  not  be  explained.  Now  you  know  the  whole 
history  of  the  engagement,  and  it  is  all  to  Willy's  credit, 
not  to  mine. 

In  remembering,  I  am  more  grateful  to  him  than  I  was 
then.  I  owed  Willy  many  things,  and,  indirectly,  my 


To   M.  L.  G.  263 

chance  with  a  manager  who  made  me  a  real  actress. 
Still  more  indirectly,  I  owe  him  a  new  soul. 

That  puzzles  you,  perhaps ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
mean.  Being  engaged  to  Willy  V lent  me  a  bor- 
rowed halo,  and  brought  me  good  offers  from  important 
managers,  which  otherwise  I  might  never  have  had. 
The  offer  I  accepted  led  me  eventually  from  the  new 
world  to  the  old.  There  I  found  myself.  And,  having 
found  myself,  I  found  you.  I  have  lost  you  now,  but  I 
have  not  lost  the  memory  of  you,  and  never  can  while  I 
live.  I  think  I  cannot  lose  it  after  death.  And  it  is 
worth  all  the  other  memories  I  shall  carry  away  out  of 
this  life. 

Mentally,  I  was  left  rather  at  what  they  call  "  loose 
ends  "  when  the  Russian  had  gone  West,  and  Willy  had 
been  packed  off  to  Monte  Carlo  to  forget  me. 

Joseph  Surface  argues  with  Lady  Teazle  that  in  the 
"  consciousness  of  innocence  "  lies  the  sting  of  scandal. 
One  is  whipped  for  stealing  fruit,  and  has  not  had  the 
fruit !  It  was  so  with  me,  after  the  Russian  episode. 

For  the  first  time  I  suffered  from  injustice,  and  smarted 
irritably  under  it.  The  bad  side  of  me  wanted  to  do 
something  to  hurt  somebody,  as  I  had  been  hurt.  I  am 
ashamed  to  tell  you  what  I  did.  It  was  more  like  the 
trick  of  a  mischievous  cat  than  a  woman. 

After  this  preface,  you  may  expect  a  dreadful  revela- 
tion. And  when  I  have  told  you  the  thing,  perhaps  you 
will  think  it  nothing.  I  despise  myself  for  it  more  than 
for  bigger  sins  ;  yet  to  you  that  confession  may  mean 
that  I  have  no  sense  of  proportion.  I  doubt  if  women 
have  any  such  sense.  But  it  may  be  that  we  have  some 
other,  finer  sense  to  atone  for  the  lack. 


264  To   M.  L.  G. 

In  the  spring,  after  Willy  and  the  Russian  had  gone,  a 
week  before  the  theatre  should  have  closed,  I  was  attacked 
with  influenza  (which  we  call  "  grippe ")  followed  by 
pneumonia.  It  was  my  first  serious  illness,  and  Jane  sat 
up  with  me  for  ten  nights.  No  one  who  had  not  loved 
me  could  have  done  half  what  she  did,  and  probably  I 
should  have  died  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  care.  When 
I  was  coming  out  of  the  depths,  Jane's  familiar  face, 
with  its  pale  skin  covered  with  a  network  of  tiny  wrin- 
kles, seemed  to  keep  death  back  from  me.  I  lay  and 
stared  at  her,  feeling  that  I  could  not  die  while  my  eyes 
were  still  able  to  follow  the  lines  of  her  homely  profile. 
She  had  on  the  lower  lid  of  one  eye  a  curious  mole,  or 
wart,  which  was  semiitransparent,  like  a  tear  mixed  with 
milk.  Vaguely,  when  half  delirious,  I  used  to  feel  that 
it  was  a  drop  of  medicine,  distilled  to  save  my  life.  It 
was  the  craziest  idea,  but  it  pleased  her  immensely  when 
I  told  her  afterwards.  She  saw  nothing  funny  in  it,  nor, 
indeed,  in  anything,  for  she  took  life  with  deadly  serious- 
ness, and  thought  it  frivolous  to  do  otherwise. 

An  understudy  played  my  part,  and  when  I  was  out  of 
danger  and  able  to  be  moved,  the  doctor  ordered  me  to 
the  country.  It  must  not  be  "  some  little  New  York  by 
the  sea,  or  in  the  mountains,"  he  said,  but  real  country, 
where  nothing  happened  and  nobody  came  —  that  is, 
nobody  from  my  world. 

I  was  too  weak  to  care  what  was  done  with  me,  and  I 
let  him  choose.  He  was  the  first  doctor  I  had  ever 
known  since  the  three  with  their  black  bags,  always 
recalled  to  my  memory  by  the  very  word  "  doctor." 
This  man  and  his  wife  were  both  very  good  to  me  while 
I  lay  ill ;  and  it  was  his  wife  who  found  my  resting-place 


To   M.  L.  G.  265 

in  the  "  real  country."  She  had  stayed  there  herself, 
among  the  mountains  of  New  Hampshire,  or  within  sight 
of  them,  and  within  smell  of  their  air.  I  agreed  to  go, 
with  Jane.  Nobody  was  to  know  anything  about  me. 
I  was  to  be  Miss  Brown,  or  Miss  White  —  it  does  not 
matter  which  name  I  took. 

The  hotel  had  grown,  and  grown  by  its  own  success, 
out  of  a  farmhouse,  and  it  was  still  kept  by  the  farmer's 
wife,  who  had  started  her  business  by  taking  a  few  sum- 
mer boarders.  Besides  this  hotel  —  more  like  a  big 
family  boarding-house  than  a  hotel  —  there  was  no  other 
building  within  a  five-mile  walk,  except  the  church,  the 
minister's  house,  and  the  post-office,  which  was  also  a 
general  "  store."  Even  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  from 
the  house  there  was  nothing  to  see  except  a  flowery 
lawn,  an  apple  orchard,  some  billowing  fields,  and  a  blue 
horizon  of  mountains.  But  the  place  was  famous  for  its 

bracing  air,  and  Mrs.  G ,  the  landlady,  was  famous 

for  her  management  and  cooking. 

The  doctor's  wife  engaged  for  me  and  Jane  two  bed- 
rooms and  a  makeshift  sitting-room.  It  was  she  who  had 
suggested  my  change  of  name,  saying  that  if  I  were 
known,  I  should  be  stared  at  unpleasantly.  But  when  I 
arrived  I  guessed  that  she  had  planned  to  save  my  feel- 
ings. I  saw  that  an  actress  would  be  like  a  black  sheep 
among  a  flock  of  white  lambs  at  the Farm. 

It  was  the  old  point  of  view  of  Miss  Plum,  who  had 
thought  herself  disgraced  by  my  kiss.  Willy's  father 
had  it,  too,  in  a  more  worldly  way.  But  there  was  no 
worldliness  at  the  Farm. 

It  was  early  in  July  when  I  arrived,  for  I  had  been  ill  a 
long  time.  The  rambling  house,  white  among  green 


266  To  M.  L.  G. 

orchard  trees,  looked  a  hidden  abode  of  peace.  There 
was  a  veranda,  wide  as  a  large  room,  which  ran  the 
whole  length  of  the  front,  and  as  I  drove  up  with  Jane, 
dozens  of  ladies,  middle-aged  and  old,  sat  on  it  in  rocking- 
chairs.  There  were  no  young  girls  and  no  men  visible. 
The  ladies  had  a  kind  of  family  resemblance  of  goodness 
and  innocence;  narrow-mindedness  I  thought  it,  impa- 
tiently, as  I  saw  them  all  sitting  there  in  rows,  rocking 
back  and  forth  in  different  directions,  like  ships  on  a 
Dutch  clock.  It  was  before  "  tea,"  as  they  called  it,  a 
kind  of  supper,  and  the  boarders  in  their  afternoon 
dresses  were  chatting  and  crocheting  as  they  waited  for 
their  meal.  Some  of  the  wide  planks  creaked  under  their 
rockers,  and  their  voices  were  thin  and  devitalizing. 
Afterwards  I  learned  that  there  was  no  man  at  all  in  the 

house,  except  old  Mr.  G ,  and  a  half-blind  clergyman 

staying  at  the  Farm  for  his  health. 

I  was  tired  out  and  ready  to  cry  after  my  long  journey, 
and  my  heart  sank  at  the  sight  of  so  many  elderly  women. 
I  did  not  know  what  would  become  of  me  in  their  midst. 

Even  Mrs.  G ,  kind,  and  bustling,  and  motherly, 

seemed  to  me  like  an  alien  creature  from  another  world. 
I  felt  as  different  from  her  and  her  boarders  as  if  I  were 
an  inhabitant  of  the  moon. 

I  had  to  rest  before  walking,  as  I  would  not  consent  to 

be  carried  by  Mr.  G ,  a  weedy  old  man  in  an  alpaca 

coat.  His  wife,  the  landlady,  put  me  into  somebody's 
rocking-chair,  by  the  front  door,  and  I  had  only  a  con- 
fused vision  of  a  little  white-haired  woman  jumping  up 
to  give  me  her  seat,  when  I  sank  into  it  and  nearly 
fainted. 

My  weakness,  and  perhaps  Jane's  respectable  appear- 


To   M.  L.  G.  267 

ance,  won  the  hearts  of  the  ladies.  They  buzzed  round 
me  like  bees,  making  suggestions  in  stage  whispers  suited 
to  an  invalid.  Home-manufactured  smelling-salts  were 
brought,  and  footstools,  and  pillows  in  worked  covers.  I 
did  not  want  any  of  these  things,  but  I  smiled  feebly.  It 
was  like  a  dream  of  old  ladies.  I  had  never  seen  so  many 
together  before.  It  seemed  to  me  that  they  were  of  the 
same  type  as  Jane.  "  Poor  child ;  poor  little  thing ! " 
they  murmured  over  me,  and  asked  Jane  in  low-voiced 
asides  if  I  had  been  very  ill,  and  what  was  the  matter.  I 
saw  by  her  face,  and  the  way  her  nose  came  down  over 
her  mouth,  that  she  meant  to  be  careful  about  answering 
questions.  Yet  she  was  pleased  at  the  attention  I  ex- 
cited. These  were  her  sort  of  people,  and  I  knew  that 
she  would  be  at  home  in  this  place.  With  me  in  New 
York,  or  on  tour,  she  was  like  a  hen-mother,  who  runs 
wretchedly  after  her  duckling  into  the  water. 

I  heard  her  say  to  some  one,  "  Only  twenty-one,"  and 
a  mild  voice  cooing,  "  Oh,  I'd  have  thought  seventeen." 
It  occurred  to  me  that  I  must  be  looking  very  young, 
with  my  hair  down  in  two  long  plaits,  tied  with  ribbon, 
and  my  face  so  white  and  thin.  I  had  not  thought  about 
my  looks  before,  since  I  was  taken  ill,  except  that  I  re- 
membered Jane  muttering  to  the  doctor,  "  It's  like  dress- 
ing a  lath  to  put  on  her  clothes.  There's  nothing  left  of 
her  but  her  eyes." 

I  almost  laughed  now,  thinking  that  I  must  be  like  a 
country  clergyman's  daughter  dying  of  consumption. 
And  it  amused  me  faintly  to  be  taken  for  a  person  so 
different  from  what  I  was. 

I  stayed  in  bed  next  day,  but  the  boarders  all  inquired 
for  me,  and  sent  me  kind  messages.  Jane  was  sentinel, 


268  To  M.  L.  G. 

and  told  me  what  they  said.  She  seemed  pleased  and 
proud.  Though  she  hated  the  least  prevarication,  I  knew 
she  was  glad  the  doctor's  wife  had  taken  the  responsi- 
bility of  changing  my  name.  She  would  have  endured 
silent  agonies  if  she  had  had  to  see  me  looked  at  askance 
by  this  band  of  good  women. 

When  I  could  go  down-stairs,  my  place  was  in  a 
steamer  chair,  on  the  shadiest  part  of  the  veranda, 
which  was  called  a  piazza.  Nobody  who  had  ever  seen 
me  on  the  stage  could  have  recognized  me  with  my  hair 
smoothed  primly  back,  wearing  a  plain,  loose  gown, 
without  corsets,  and  a  little  white  Shetland  shawl,  light 
as  a  cloud,  thrown  round  my  shoulders.  I  sat  with  my 
eyes  half  shut  at  first ;  but  I  saw  the  ladies  coming  and 
going  around  me,  and  noticed  all  their  peculiarities.  I 
thought  if  I  were  a  "character  actress,"  I  would  like  to 
try  making  up  my  face  to  copy  two  or  three  of  the 
quaintest  ones,  and  that  it  would  be  fun  to  imitate  their 
ways  and  voices.  It  was  a  distraction  to  imagine  myself 
doing  this ;  so  when  I  felt  strong  enough  to  talk,  I  smiled 
at  the  ladies  when  they  hovered  near  me.  That  encour- 
aged them  to  speak,  and  they  began  an  acquaintance  by 
criticizing  the  weather,  or  telling  me  that  I  would  soon 
be  well.  They  all  had  friends  or  relatives  who  had 
nearly  died  while  very  young,  but  had  recovered  miracu- 
lously. I  compared  the  ladies  in  my  mind  to  birds, 
timid,  yet  eager,  who  hop  near  to  scattered  bits  of  bread, 
then  flutter  away,  and  at  last  grow  bold  enough  to  peck 
at  the  crumbs. 

Every  one  wanted  to  know  who  I  was,  where  I  came 
from,  and  what  I  did  for  a  living.  All  the  boarders  at 
the  Farm  did  something  for  a  living.  Most  of  them 


To   M.  L.  G.  269 

were  teachers.  One  was  a  missionary.  There  were  two 
Christian  Science  healers  ;  and  all  were  very  religious. 
They  did  not  dare  ask  questions  of  me,  for  I  was  an  in- 
valid; but  they  hinted  to  Jane.  Duty  and  inclination 
made  her  discreet.  She  was  in  her  element ;  and  I  was 
silly  enough  to  be  jealous  because  she  was  so  beamingly 
happy  among  these  good  women.  The  kind  little  atten- 
tions that  had  pleased,  even  while  they  bored  me,  got 
upon  my  nerves  at  last.  I  wanted  to  go  away  with  Jane, 
and  win  her  back  again. 

But  I  was  not  well  enough  to  go  just  then.  I  had  to 
assume  patience,  if  I  had  it  not. 

As  I  grew  stronger,  the  ladies  vied  with  each  other  in 
doing  new  kindnesses  for  me.  Because  I  had  happened 
to  mention  knowing  a  newspaper  man,  they  rushed  to 
the  conclusion  that  I  was  a  writer.  They  assumed  that 
I  was  "  literary  "  and  fond  of  reading,  therefore  they  took 
turns  in  reading  aloud.  They  skimmed  what  they  con- 
sidered the  cream  of  the  news  for  me,  and  were  careful 
to  leave  out  all  the  theatrical  paragraphs.  Jane  uncon- 
sciously added  to  my  growing  irritation  by  dropping  a 
hint  that  I  must  be  careful  not  to  speak  of  the  stage. 
"  Show  people  "  were  disapproved  of  at  the  Farm. 

I  had  easily  guessed  this  from  the  beginning ;  but  it 
vexed  me  to  hear  it  from  Jane.  Vaguely  I  began  to  plot 
mischief. 

The  books  my  self-appointed  nurses  chose  to  read 
aloud  were  all  more  or  less  religious,  and  novels  were 
laid  aside  on  Sunday.  Sunday  papers  were  not  taken 

by  the  G s,  and  some  of  the  ladies  were  not  quite 

sure  that  they  ought  to  write  letters  on  that  day.  On 
Sunday  evenings  they  all  united  in  singing  hymns,  and  I 


270  To  M.  L.  G. 

would  have  been  made  to  join  if  I  had  not  pleaded  that 
my  voice  wasn't  strong  enough  yet.  Jane  sang  lustily, 
and  seemed  ardently  making  up  for  the  time  she  had  lost 
in  my  pagan  service.  I  felt  sulkily  injured  because  she 
revered  these  plain,  elderly  women,  all  over  forty,  who 
could  never  have  had  any  temptations,  and  that  she 
mingled  no  respect  with  her  love  for  me.  I  thought  that 
she  was  ashamed  of  me  in  her  heart,  now  that  she  had 
come  to  live  in  this  rarified  atmosphere,  and  that  she  was 
afraid  of  my  being  "  found  out" 

That  idea  made  me  wickedly  wish  to  be  found  out.  I 
dwelt  a  good  deal  on  the  thought  of  a  catastrophe,  and 
wondered  what,  if  anything,  would  happen.  Almost 
morbidly  I  imagined  the  homely  faces,  that  beamed  on 
me  now,  freezing  into  masks  of  horror. 

At  last,  I  could  get  up  from  my  steamer  chair  without 
help  from  Jane  or  any  one,  and  walk  slowly  up  and  down 
the  veranda.  Then  I  could  try  my  strength  on  the  grass 
path  under  the  great  old  apple-trees.  But  I  was  not 
allowed  to  go  alone.  I  had  become  the  spoiled  darling 
of  the  house,  the  one  young  person,  the  one  creature  who 
could  be  petted.  Always  I  had  a  body-guard  of  two  or 
more  elderly  ladies.  They  told  me  anecdotes  about  their 
lives  at  home,  and  expected  confidences  in  return,  but  I 
contrived  to  seem  frank,  yet  to  tell  nothing.  Quietly  I 
let  my  new  friends  keep  the  theory  that  I  was  a  journalist 
who  had  broken  down  from  overwork.  They  built  it 
up  themselves,  without  much  help  from  me.  I  had  only 
to  be  evasive,  and  I  never  had  to  lie. 

Once  or  twice  I  turned  the  talk  to  theatres.  The  ladies 
did  not  wish  to  think  harshly  of  any  one,  yet  they  could 
not  help  fearing  that  actresses  were  "not  quite  nice," 


To  M.  L.  G.  271 

even  the  best.  They  had  never  met  any.  But  on  prin- 
ciple they  were  sorry  for  the  poor  things.  No  doubt 
actresses  had  a  great  many  temptations,  and  ought  not 
to  be  severely  judged.  The  ladies  were  sorry,  too,  for 
millionaires.  The  responsibilities  of  wealth  were  too 
great.  Most  of  all,  they  pitied  foreigners.  They  were 
unable  to  imagine  a  Russian  aristocrat  being  a  good 
man ;  and  one  day,  when  I  came  across  a  photograph  of 
my  Russian  in  a  newspaper,  I  could  not  resist  asking  a 
group  of  my  kind  nurses  what  they  thought  of  him. 

They  had  all  heard  of  his  visit  to  America,  and  his 
adventures.  Their  homes  were  in  small  towns,  but  they 
read  New  York  society  news  every  day  except  Sundays, 
if  only  to  shake  their  neat  heads  over  the  extravagances 
of  the  Four  Hundred.  Every  one  agreed  that  the  Rus- 
sian was  a  dangerous  man,  and  had  a  horrid  face.  All 
were  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  American  parents 
could  let  their  pure  daughters  dance  with  such  a  notori- 
ous person.  They  had  heard  distressing  stories  about 
him  and  an  American  actress,  which  they  hoped  were 
untrue,  for  the  honor  of  America.  But  they  did  not 
know  what  the  details  were,  as  they  thought  it  best  to 
skip  improper  things  in  newspapers. 

This  talk  stirred  up  all  that  was  rebellious  in  me. 
The  vague  longing  I  had  to  startle  these  good  people 
took  a  definite  form. 

The  paragraph  with  the  Russian's  photograph  said 
that  he  had  returned  from  the  West,  and  that  he  would 
be  paying  visits  to  Boston  and  Bar  Harbor  before  sailing 
for  Russia. 

By  this  time  I  had  been  at  the  Farm  for  more  than 
three  weeks.  I  was  well  again,  and  almost  as  strong  as 


272  To   M.  L.  G. 

ever,  though  I  still  looked  thin  and  pale.  I  felt  younger, 
too,  and  more  like  a  child  than  I  had  felt  in  the  past  four 
years.  Already  I  had  written  to  my  doctor,  telling  him 
I  should  do  something  desperate  unless  he  let  me  cut 
short  the  rest  cure,  which  was  to  have  lasted  six  weeks. 
On  the  day  of  the  discussion  started  by  the  Russian's 
portrait,  I  waited  till  the  hour  when  most  of  the  ladies 
took  their  naps,  and  then,  full  of  my  new  idea,  started 
out  along  a  shady  "  short  cut "  to  the  post-office. 

I  had  corresponded  with  no  one  except  the  doctor 
since  I  came  to  the  Farm,  and  the  few  letters  I  received 
had  been  forwarded  from  my  flat  under  cover  to  Jane. 
Now  I  telegraphed  to  the  servant  I  had  left  at  home 
to  send  me  a  certain  costume  which  I  described.  The 
parcel  was  to  be  addressed,  of  course,  to  the  new  name  I 
bore  at  the  Farm.  Next,  I  wrote  out  a  long  message  to 
the  Russian,  saying  that  I  should  be  glad  to  see  him 
again,  in  a  friendly  way,  if  he  cared  to  motor  from 

Boston  to  ,  and  "  take  me  for  a  long  drive."  I 

mentioned  a  day  just  after  the  date  of  his  expected 
arrival  at  Boston,  asking  him  to  call  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  I  gave  him  the  address,  and  told  him  to 
wire  whether  he  would  come  or  not. 

The  answer  was :  "  Yes,  with  great  pleasure."  And 
I  let  the  spirit  of  mischief  take  hold  of  me.  When  the 
parcel  with  the  costume  from  New  York  arrived,  I  hid  it 
in  my  room,  without  letting  Jane  know  that  it  had  come. 
I  told  her  only  that  the  doctor  might  let  me  go  away 
sooner  than  we  had  expected ;  that  by  any  post  I  might 
have  news,  and  she  had  better  begin  to  pack,  for  when 
permission  came,  I  should  want  to  start  at  once.  Jane 
was  grieved,  but  submissive.  With  me  she  had  learned 


To   M.  L.  G.  273 

to  expect  the  unexpected,  and  few  things  that  I  could  do 
would  have  surprised  her. 

It  was  the  habit  of  the  boarders  at  Mrs.  G 's  farm 

to  sit  chatting  on  the  veranda  for  an  hour  after  finish- 
ing their  noon  dinner.  Then,  one  by  one,  they  would 
excuse  themselves  on  different  pretexts.  Naps  were 
mentioned  only  by  the  most  original  and  independent 
natures,  for  there  existed  a  Puritan  prejudice  against 
laziness  as  a  vice ;  but  when  the  ladies  returned  to  their 
rocking-chairs  before  tea  time,  they  all  looked  suspiciously 
fresh  and  bright. 

Dinner  was  at  one  o'clock.  We  invariably  finished 
before  two.  I  was  sure,  therefore,  that  if  the  Russian 
came  at  two,  he  would  find  the  whole  company  of  my 
friends  grouped  on  the  veranda,  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  house  —  the  east  side  which  commanded  the  drive  up 
from  the  front  gate. 

Though  I  was  well  again,  I  kept  the  privileges  of  an 
invalid.  Nobody  thought  it  strange  that  I  excused  my- 
self from  dinner  before  the  apple  pie  and  cheese.  I  ran 
up-stairs,  and  locked  my  door,  although  I  knew  it  was 
unlikely  that  Jane  would  follow  me.  She  was  fond  of 

helping  in  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  G and  an  elderly 

cousin  of  the  family  did  all  the  cooking.  As  soon  as  the 
boarders'  dinner  was  over,  Jane  and  the  cousin  had  their 
meal  cozily  together. 

For  the  first  time  since  coming  to  the  Farm  I  dressed 
my  hair  as  I  wore  it  in  New  York.  This  alone,  after 
wearing  it  in  two  long  tails,  made  a  great  difference  in 
my  appearance.  But  when  I  had  put  on  corsets,  fitted 
by  a  famous  corsetiere  from  Paris,  high-heeled  shoes  to 
match  the  costume  sent  on  from  New  York,  and  the 


274  To   M.  L.  G. 

costume  itself,  I  was  hardly  to  be  recognized  as  the  meek 
little  invalid. 

I  changed  quickly,  as  if  I  were  dressing  for  a  call  at 
the  beginning  of  a  new  act.  When  I  was  ready,  and 
had  packed  a  small  hand-bag,  I  scribbled  off  a  note 
in  pencil  to  Jane.  This  I  fastened  to  the  crocheted 
cover  of  the  pincushion,  on  the  old-fashioned  chest  of 
drawers.  Jane  could  not  help  seeing  it  there  the 
moment  she  opened  the  door.  In  the  letter  I  explained 
that  I  had  gone  off  with  a  friend,  in  his  automobile.  I 
told  Jane  to  pay  our  bill  at  the  Farm,  and  follow  me 
with  our  luggage  to  a  hotel  in  Boston  where  I  had  once 
or  twice  stopped  when  on  tour ;  and  into  the  envelope  I 
put  enough  money  for  everything. 

By  the  time  I  had  finished  all  my  preparations  it 
was  close  upon  two  o'clock,  and  I  sat  down  behind 
bowed  window  shutters  to  wait.  I  had  felt  sure  of  the 
Russian,  but  when  ten  minutes,  twenty  minutes  went 
by,  I  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  changed  his  mind,  or 
perhaps  had  never  meant  to  come.  I  knew  that  he 
could  be  cruel  to  those  he  thought  had  injured  him  ; 
and  he  had  been  angry  with  me  before  he  left  New 
York  in  the  winter.  It  occurred  to  me  now  that  this 
might  be  his  Russian  way  of  revenging  himself.  But 
while  I  thought  over  many  things  that  could  have 
happened,  I  caught  the  sound  of  a  motor.  It  was  a 
sound  not  often  heard  at  the  Farm,  for  the  place  was 
not  near  the  highroad.  I  jumped  up  and  peered 
through  the  half-closed  shutters.  A  big  red  automobile 
had  whirled  through  the  open  gateway  and  was  tearing 
at  a  great  pace  up  the  long  straight  drive,  under  maple 
trees. 


To  M.  L.  G.  275 

There  was  not  an  instant  to  lose  if  I  wanted  to 
seize  the  dramatic  moment.  I  snatched  up  my  hand- 
bag, and,  flying  down-stairs,  flashed  out  on  to  the 
veranda  like  a  rocket,  just  as  the  motor  slowed  down 
at  the  steps. 

When  I  excused  myself  from  dinner,  I  was  wearing 
a  plain  white  linen  shirt  and  short  skirt,  with  canvas 
tennis  shoes,  a  black  bow  at  my  neck,  and  black  bows 
on  my  plaits  of  hair.  Now  my  hair  was  "  Marcelled," 
and  puffed  out  to  fill  up  the  brim  of  a  red  motor-bonnet, 
with  a  long  red  veil.  I  had  put  a  little  rose-colored 
nail-salve  on  my  cheeks,  for  I  had  no  rouge  with  me, 
as  I  have  never  used  it  off  the  stage.  My  dress  was  of 
poppy-red  cloth  to  match  the  bonnet,  and  even  my  high- 
heeled  shoes  were  red.  It  was  a  costume  I  had  worn  on 
the  stage  in  last  season's  play,  and  I  had  sent  for  it  now 
because  I  knew  that  the  car  which  the  Russian  used  in 
New  York  was  red. 

The  ladies  in  their  rocking-chairs,  already  startled, 
even  terrified  by  the  sudden  dashing  up  of  the  scarlet 
automobile,  were  thrown  almost  into  a  state  of  collapse 
at  sight  of  me  in  my  bright  red  dress  and  bonnet,  with 
its  floating  veil. 

I  ran  out  of  the  house  to  the  steps  of  the  veranda 
without  turning  to  glance  at  them  ;  yet  I  was  conscious 
of  their  shocked  amazement — I  saw  with  my  mind's 
eyes.  I  shook  hands  with  the  Russian,  who  called  me 
by  my  real  name,  as  I  pronounced  his  title.  We  took 
no  notice  of  any  one  but  each  other,  and  behaved  as  if 
we  two  were  alone  in  the  world.  His  chauffeur  was 
driving,  and  the  Russian  put  me  on  his  right,  in  the 
back  of  the  car.  Then,  as  he  was  giving  directions  to 


276  To   M.  L.  G. 

his  man,  I  leaned  out  and  kissed  my  hand  to  the  band 
of  ladies  on  the  veranda. 

"  Good-bye,  everybody  !  "  I  said.  "  A  thousand  thanks 
to  you  all  for  being  so  kind  to  me.  Perhaps  I  shan't 
come  back.  Jane  will  attend  to  everything.  I  wish 
you'd  come  and  see  me  at  the  theatre  some  day." 

With  that  the  car  was  off.  As  we  whizzed  down  the 
drive  and  along  the  road,  I  told  the  Russian  about  my 
rest  cure,  and  my  kind  nurses  at  the  Farm.  We  both 
laughed  a  great  deal  and  loudly ;  but  even  as  the  story 
unfolded,  and  I  hit  off  the  peculiarities  of  my  friends  for 
the  Russian's  amusement,  I  found  myself  already  trying 
to  apologize  for  what  I  had  done,  to  excuse  my  hard- 
heartedness  on  the  ground  of  the  old  ladies'  narrow- 
mindedness.  But  it  was  a  feeble  defense.  I  felt  that 
keenly,  though  the  Russian,  far  from  being  disgusted, 
roared  with  laughter  as  he  listened.  By  the  time  I  had 
finished  I  was  miserably  ashamed  of  myself,  and  would 
have  given  anything  to  go  back  and  beg  every  one's 
forgiveness.  My  own  story,  in  the  telling,  showed  me 
how  hateful  I  had  been,  and  the  Russian  soon  made  me 
see  that  I  had  also  been  imprudent.  My  invitation  had 
led  him  to  expect  more  than  I  meant  to  give,  and  if  I 
had  not  threatened  to  call  out  to  passers-by,  he  would 
not  have  put  me  down  at  the  hotel  where  I  wished  to 
stay  in  Boston. 

There  is  very  little  chance  that  any  of  the  kind  souls 
whom  I  disappointed  and  shocked  so  cruelly  at  Mrs. 

G 's  farm  will  ever  read  what  I  am  writing.  If  by 

some  queer  chance  this  story  of  my  life  should  fall  into 
the  hands  of  one  among  them,  I  should  at  once  be 
recognized.  Nevertheless,  I  wish  that  they  could  all 


To   M.  L.  G.  277 

see  it.  I  should  like  to  have  them  know,  even  after 
these  years,  that  I  hurt  myself  more  than  I  hurt  them 
by  the  ungrateful  trick  I  played. 

Sometimes  in  dreams  I  go  back  to  the  Farm,  and  see 
faces  whose  features  I  can  hardly  recall  nowadays  when 
I  am  awake.  Then  the  dreams  bring  back  the  remem- 
brance of  my  going  away  so  vividly  that  I  see  myself 
in  my  red  dress  turning  to  wave  good-bye  from  the 
Russian's  red  car.  And  I  feel  again  the  sharp  sting  of 
remorse,  like  a  whip-lash  across  my  breast. 

As  for  you  to  whom  I  write,  I  want  you  also  to  know 
that  I  was  sorry,  as  soon  as  it  was  too  late.  It  seemed, 
and  it  seems  still,  even  a  more  shameful  thing  to  have 
done  than  other  things  which  a  man  would  think  far 
worse.  I  have  never  forgiven  myself,  and  it  is  partly 
as  a  penance  that  I  tell  you ;  partly  because  you  could 
not  know  me  precisely  as  I  was  unless  you  knew  the 
story  of  the <  Farm. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IF  Jane  had  not  loved  me  with  real  devotion,  she 
would  never  have  come  back  to  me  again  after 
what  I  did  at  the  Farm.  I  was  afraid,  while  I 
waited  for  her  alone,  in  Boston,  that  she  would  not 
come.  But  she  forgave  me,  because  she  knew  that  I 
needed  her.  I  cried  when  I  saw  how  withered  the 
poor  face  looked,  and  I  never  had  the  courage  to  ask 
what  was  said  after  I  went  away  with  the  Russian.  I 
knew  that  I  had  made  her  ashamed  for  herself  and  for 
me,  and  that  she  really  suffered ;  yet  she  never  spoke 
a  word  of  reproach  or  referred  to  the  incident  after  that 
day. 

When  we  got  back  to  New  York,  the  theatre  was 

closed  for  the  summer ;  but  Mr.  O ,  my  new  manager, 

had  made  a  plan  for  me.  He  called  at  my  flat  the  day 
I  telephoned  news  of  my  arrival  in  town,  and  asked  me, 
without  any  preamble,  how  I  would  like  to  run  over  to 
Paris. 

The  idea  almost  took  my  breath  away  with  joy.  It 
had  never  seemed  possible  to  me  that  I  should  be  able  to 
go  to  Europe.  When  I  heard  or  read  of  other  people's 
sailings,  I  felt  dimly  that  they  were  floating  away  into 
blue  regions  of  space.  Europe  had  no  reality  for  me. 
It  existed  only  in  books,  like  beautiful  fancies  of  which 
poets  had  written.  I  listened  without  speaking,  while 
Mr.  O talked  on,  explaining  his  plan. 

He  thought  that  the  sea  trip  would  do  me  good,  and 
278 


To   M.  L.  G.  279 

that  Paris  would  "  brighten  me  up  "  after  the  dullness  of 
my  rest  cure  in  the  country ;  but  those  were  not  the  only 
reasons  for  his  suggestion.  A  new  play  had  just  been 
produced  in  Paris,  which  had  made  a  sensation.  From 

all  accounts,  it  was  a  strange  play,  but  Mr.  O had 

been  interested  in  what  he  read  of  it.  He  had  made 
inquiries  by  cable  of  a  man  in  Paris,  whose  judgment  he 
trusted,  and  he  thought  that  I  could  play  the  part  which 
a  favorite  French  actress  had  created. 

"  Go  and  see  for  yourself,"  he  said  to  me,  in  his  grave, 
quiet  voice,  which  always  inspired  me  to  do  my  best. 
"  You  have  learned  enough  French  to  understand  what 
they  are  talking  about  on  the  stage.  If  you  feel  your- 
self in  the  part,  I'll  have  the  play  translated  at  once  by 

X ,  and  we'll  open  the  theatre  with  it  in  the  fall.  I've 

got  the  refusal  of  the  rights  already,  by  cable." 

This  was  like  Mr.  O .  He  always  secured  the 

rights  to  any  foreign  plays  which  might  possibly  succeed 
in  America,  though  often  he  did  not  produce  them,  but 
sold  to  other  managers,  or  let  the  rights  drop. 

The  idea  of  going  to  Europe  seemed  almost  too  good 
to  be  true.  Even  after  my  cabin  and  Jane's  berth  had 
been  engaged  on  a  big  ship,  and  instructions  about  meet- 
ing me  sent  to  X in  Paris,  I  could  hardly  believe  that 

such  a  wonderful  thing  could  really  happen.  I  felt  as  I 
used  to  imagine  I  would  feel  if  a  big  mirror  suddenly 
opened  like  a  mysterious  door,  and  I  could  walk  down  a 
glass  corridor  into  another  world  —  the  looking-glass 
world,  where  Lily  Merritt  lived. 

Even  while  I  was  on  board  ship  with  Jane,  it  was  still 
a  dream.  The  ship  was  as  unreal  as  Europe,  whither  it 
was  supposed  to  be  taking  me,  across  the  unknown  sea. 


280  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  had  never  been  on  a  ship  before,  and  had  not  even 
visited  the  docks  to  see  one  move  out  or  come  in  ;  but 
while  I  was  walking  up  and  down  the  deck  with  Mr. 

O (who  had  volunteered  to  see  me  off),  to  my  great 

surprise  the  Russian  appeared,  with  a  group  of  American 
millionaires  and  millionairesses  whom  he  had  been  visit- 
ing. I  had  had  no  idea  that  he  meant  to  sail  in  this 
ship.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  we  parted  after  a  quarrel 
in  his  motor-car,  in  front  of  my  hotel  in  Boston ;  but  I 
had  read  in  the  papers  that  he  was  sailing  in  one  of  the 
big  new  Cunarders.  My  ship  was  of  another  line,  and 
would  take  a  week  between  New  York  and  Cherbourg. 

When  the  Russian  came  in  sight  with  his  rich  Ameri- 
can friends,  Mr.  O glanced  at  me  with  a  whimsical 

look,  and  raised  his  eyebrows.  I  understood,  as  well  as 
if  he  had  spoken,  that  he  meant,  "  Well,  my  dear  girl, 
this  is  really  going  rather  too  far." 

"  Please  don't  hold  me  responsible,"  I  hurried  to  say. 
"  I  assure  you  I  didn't  even  know  the  man  was  coming." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  criticize  you  off  the  stage,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  pleasant  smile.  But  I  felt  that  he  was 
good-naturedly  forgiving  me,  rather  than  believing  that 
what  I  said  was  true. 

Instantly  I  had  a  change  of  mood.  The  beautiful, 
mysterious  sense  of  unreality  was  gone.  I,  and  every- 
thing round  me,  seemed  painfully  real  again.  I  could 

have  cried  with  rage  because  Mr.  O thought  I  had 

secretly  encouraged  the  Russian  to  engage  his  passage  on 
my  ship.  To  have  done  this,  I  felt  (and  was  sure  he  felt) 
would  have  been  taking  unfair  advantage  of  the  mission 
on  which  I  was  sent.  I  wanted  to  protest,  to  argue  my 
case,  to  assure  myself  before  parting  with  Mr.  O 


To   M.  L.  G.  281 

that  he  accepted  my  word.  But  a  stubborn  pride 
darkened  the  sunshine  in  my  heart.  I  would  say  no 
more.  Mr.  O was  very  kind,  and  bade  me  good- 
bye pleasantly,  evidently  anxious  that  I  should  see  no 
change  in  his  manner ;  yet  a  shadow  had  come  between 
us,  and  my  pleasure  in  anticipating  the  trip  was  spoiled. 

I  respected  Mr.  O more  than  any  man  I  had  known 

since  I  grew  up,  and  I  wanted  him  to  respect  me  as  a 
woman,  as  well  as  an  actress.  I  saw  that  I  had  forfeited 
his  esteem,  and  because  this  time  I  was  innocent,  a  sense 
of  the  world's  injustice  weighed  heavily  on  my  mind.  I 
thought  that  I  should  not  have  disliked  half  as  much 
being  found  out  by  him  if  I  had  really  been  guilty ;  and 
I  had  a  strange  wish  to  revenge  myself  on  God,  for  let- 
ting the  one  man  whose  good  opinion  I  valued  most  go 
away  thinking  badly  of  me. 

I  remembered  how  people  had  gossiped  about  me  and 
the  Russian  in  the  winter,  when  my  only  sin  was  a  little 
flirtation.  The  injustice  from  which  I  had  suffered  then 
seemed  worse  now  than  it  really  was.  I  reviewed  my 
whole  life  sombrely,  and  it  seemed  to  me  very  tragic.  I 
told  myself  that  I  had  never  had  a  chance ;  and  even 
though  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  this  was  untrue,  I  found 
a  grim  pleasure  in  thinking  it.  Against  the  black  back- 
ground of  my  reflections,  I  saw  myself  stand,  a  white 
figure,  like  a  martyr ;  and  I  determined  that  I  would  be 
a  martyr  no  longer.  I  vowed  to  enjoy  life  as  I  never 
had  enjoyed  it  yet.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  do 

all  the  things  which  the  world  and  Mr.  O believed 

that  I  had  done.  And  it  seemed  that  Paris,  of  all  places 
in  the  world,  would  be  the  place  to  begin  to  live  a  life  of 
pleasure. 


282  To   M.  L.  G. 

The  Russian  came  to  me  when  his  friends  had  gone, 
and  the  ship  had  started.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
changed  his  passage  at  the  last  moment,  because  he  had 
heard  I  would  be  on  this  ship.  He  said  that  he  regretted 
the  cause  he  had  given  me  for  quarrelling  with  him,  and 
seemed  so  sincere  that  I  liked  him  better  than  before. 
Besides,  I  was  flattered  that  a  man  in  his  position  should 
care  so  much  for  me.  My  vanity  was  stirred.  The 
Russian  was  a  conspicuous  figure  on  the  ship.  Every- 
body knew  him,  and  I  guessed  how  those  who  did  not  know 
me  were  inquiring  of  each  other  who  I  was,  as  we  walked 
the  deck  together  the  first  day  out.  A  good  many  people 
of  importance  in  society  were  on  board,  among  others 
several  hostesses  who  had  entertained  the  Russian,  and  I 
could  not  help  being  pleased  because  apparently  he 
preferred  my  society  to  theirs. 

I  found  that  he  was  not  my  only  acquaintance  on 
board.  There  were  two  or  three  Harvard  boys  I  had 
met  when  I  played  in  Boston  one  year.  On  the  second 
day  out,  they  introduced  a  man  who  was,  in  his  way,  as 
interesting  as  the  Russian,  and  far  better  looking.  He 
was  from  Texas,  a  tanned  giant,  taller  than  the  Russian, 
with  a  soft,  lazy  voice,  eyes  of  yellow-brown  like  the 
water  of  a  brook  in  sunshine,  and  the  nicest  smile  I  had 
ever  seen,  then.  At  first,  I  wanted  him  to  like  me,  in 
order  to  make  the  Russian  jealous ;  but  soon  I  wanted  it 
because  I  liked  him.  There  were  other  men,  too,  who 
were  willing  to  waste  their  time  on  me ;  and  I  saw  that 
there  were  women  who  envied  me,  pretty  women  in 
society  who  would  not  have  cared  to  know  me  off  the 
stage.  I  felt  a  sense  of  power,  and  was  intoxicated  by  it. 
I  longed  to  make  others  feel  it  too ;  and  I  told  myself 


To  M.  L.  G.  283 

that  there  would  be  joy  in  using  it  recklessly.  As  an 
actress  I  had  lived,  but  never  yet  as  a  woman,  and  some- 
thing urged  me  on  to  begin,  in  the  old  world,  which  poor 
Jane  believed  to  be  so  wicked. 

The  Russian  was  to  spend  some  days  in  Paris :  how 
many  depended  upon  me,  he  said.  I  promised  that  he 
might  call  at  my  hotel,  and  that  I  would  dine  with  him 
somewhere.  I  imagined  that  with  him,  in  Paris,  I  should 
see  new  phases  of  life,  and  my  pulses  beat  fast  as  if  I  were 
knocking  at  a  closed  door  that  would  soon  open.  I 
promised  the  Texan  that  he,  too,  should  sec  me ;  but  the 
first  night  was  for  the  play  which  I  had  been  sent  to  judge. 
I  was  looking  forward  to  that  with  keen  interest,  but  for 
the  first  time  since  going  on  the  stage  the  actress  in  me 
was  pushed  into  the  background.  This  was  a  bad  sign, 
and  I  knew  it ;  but  the  danger  signal  fascinated  rather 
than  frightened  me,  because  of  that  tumultuous  new  desire 
I  had  to  live. 

Deliberately,  I  wanted  to  fall  in  love.  I  thought  that 
a  real  passion  would  put  into  my  acting  something  that 
it  lacked.  I  tried  to  make  believe  that  I  was  learning  to 
love  the  Russian,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  if  the  lesson 
were  to  be  learned,  I  would  learn  it  in  Paris.  He  talked 
of  carrying  me  off  to  St.  Petersburg.  I  laughed,  and 
pretended  to  take  the  threat  as  a  joke,  yet  in  some  moods 
I  could  imagine  going  voluntarily. 

At  Cherbourg,  he  ceased  to  be  my  slave,  and  became 
once  more  a  high  personage.  This  made  me  value  him 
the  more,  for  it  showed  me  the  distance  between  us,  which 
he  was  eager  to  bridge.  Grave-looking,  distinguished 
men  met  him,  and  bowed  a  great  deal,  with  their  hats  in 
their  hands.  He  had  a  private  car,  and  walked  off  to  it 


284  To   M.  L.  G. 

with  his  escort,  but  his  eyes  followed  me  and  the  Texan, 
as  we  mounted  into  the  same  carriage. 

At  Paris,  I  was  met  by  X ,  introduced  by  Mr.  O . 

X recognized  me  from  photographs  he  had  seen,  and 

I  recognized  him  from  Mr.  O 's  description :  "  Look 

for  a  young  man  about  thirty,  with  a  long  nose,  and  a  pair  of 
black  eyes  so  bright  that  they  seem  to  have  a  separate, 
individual  life  of  their  own.  You  would  feel,  if  he  died, 
that  death  could  not  kill  them,  but  that  his  eyes  would 
go  on  living,  and  glow  like  coals  in  his  coffin,  when  he 
was  a  skeleton." 

That  was  a  description  not  to  forget,  and  I  thought, 
when  the  brilliant  eyes  called  mine,  from  a  distance,  and 
across  a  crowd,  that  no  words  could  have  given  me  a 
more  vivid  idea  of  their  compelling,  fiery  intelligence. 

The  man's  whole  personality  sparkled  with  magnetism. 
I  felt  a  shock  run  up  my  wrist  when  he  took  my  hand  in 
his  nervous  grasp,  and  our  eyes  meeting  as  our  fingers 
touched,  another  electric  flash  darted  through  me. 

X had  been  born  in  America,  of  French  parents, 

but  there  was  Jewish  blood  in  his  veins.  He  had  the 
shrewdness  of  the  West,  the  artistic  sense  of  the  Latins, 
and  the  dreamy  passion  of  the  Oriental.  I  seemed  to 
learn  all  this  in  a  glance.  His  accent  was  slightly  Amer- 
ican, and  made  me  feel  at  home  in  a  strange  land.  But, 

as  we  drove  together  to  a  hotel,  where  he,  by  Mr.  O 's 

request,  had  engaged  rooms  for  me,  I  happened  to  men- 
tion that  I  had  learned  French,  for  the  sake  of  a  part  I 
had  to  play  a  year  before.  Then  he  broke  into  the  lan- 
guage which  seemed  more  his  own,  more  expressive  of 
himself,  than  English.  At  once  he  became  a  Frenchman. 
His  gestures  were  French.  He  said  things  which  neither 


To   M.  L.  G.  285 

Americans  nor  Englishmen  say  to  women.  I  found  that 
I  could  understand  all  he  said,  though  he  spoke  very 
fast,  and  this  pleased  me ;  but  his  compliments  upon  my 
French  pleased  me  still  more.  I  told  him  how  I  had 
learned  the  language  by  the  Berlitz  method,  and  had 
hired  a  Frenchwoman  from  Tours  to  come  to  my  flat 
every  morning  for  months  for  conversation  and  criticism. 
In  order  to  speak  broken  French  intelligently,  in  the 
part  I  was  studying  then,  I  had  wanted  to  understand  the 
language  well.  "  Brava !  "  X said,  fixing  his  burn- 
ing eyes  upon  my  face.  "  Brava  !  That  is  the  true  spirit 

of  the  actress.     I   believe  all  that  O writes  me  of 

you.  Now  you  are  going  to  have  a  reward  for  your 
hard  work.  I  can  hardly  wait  to  know  what  you  will 
think  of  this  wonderful  play,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am  that  we  shall  see  it  together." 

He  had  engaged  rooms  for  me  at  an  old-fashioned  but 
charming  hotel,  of  which  few  Americans  of  the  tourist 
type  had  ever  heard.  "  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  after  see- 
ing your  photograph,  that  you  would  be  the  kind  to  like 
it  better  than  the  big,  obvious  places  where  everybody 
goes." 

This  was  a  compliment,  and  I  appreciated  it. 

X took  me  to  the  hotel,  and  with  the  fat,  polite 

manager  went  up  to  show  me  the  rooms.  They  were 
full  of  flowers,  deep  velvety  red  roses,  with  purple  shadows 
lying  between  their  petals. 

"Again  I  judged  from  your  photograph,"  X said 

in  English.  The  manager  of  the  hotel  had  never  troubled 
to  learn  English. 

Then   I  knew  what  I  already  suspected ;  that  X 

was  responsible  for  the  flowers. 


286  To  M.  L.  G. 

There  was  something  extraordinary  about  the  man, 
which  I  felt  intensely,  but  could  not  have  described.  He 
seemed  a  born  lover,  as  well  as  a  poet,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  man  of  the  world.  I  could  not  imagine  meeting 
him  anywhere  except  in  Paris.  For  me,  he  was  Paris. 

I  was  too  much  excited  to  be  tired  when  evening 
came.  I  had  not  even  lain  down  to  rest  after  the  long 
journey  from  Cherbourg.  I  forgot  that  I  had  been  an 

invalid  only  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  that  Mr.  O had 

advised  the  sea  voyage  as  a  tonic.  Never  had  I  felt 
more  alive,  more  vital.  I  knew  that  I  was  in  the  right 
mood  to  squeeze  the  last  drop  of  meaning  from  the  play. 

X called  for  me  early.  I  was  to  dine  with  him 

before  the  theatre.  He  had  chosen  the  Ritz,  as  a  con- 
trast to  the  quiet  hotel  where  he  had  put  me  among  my 
roses.  On  the  table  were  more  roses.  The  sweet  heady 

perfume  of  them  was  the  perfume  of  Paris.  X 

looked  well  in  evening  dress.  His  smooth  black  hair, 
parted  in  the  middle,  seemed  to  be  carved  on  his  head, 
like  a  block  of  varnished  wood. 

He  said,  "  I  will  not  give  you  champagne.  That  is 
for  butterflies  and  millionaires  who  want  the  best  but 
don't  know  how  to  get  it.  You  are  a  rare  woman,  and 
I  have  chosen  a  rare  wine  for  you,  a  libation  for  a  god- 
dess. It  is  the  color  of  your  roses.  It  would  be  the 
color  of  your  jewels  if  you  wore  them ;  for  your  jewels 
should  be  rubies." 

My  heart  was  full,  as  I  told  him  that  I  hated  cham- 
pagne of  all  things,  and  loved  rubies,  but  had  no  jewels. 

"  You  ought  to  have  them,"  he  said.  "  You  are 
worthy  of  rubies." 

His  brilliant  eyes  lit  a  fire  in  my  blood.     I  felt  his 


To  M.  L.  G.  287 

power,  and  felt,  too,  that  I  had  power  over  him.  We 
talked  of  impersonal  things,  and  his  intellect  seemed  to 
display  itself  for  me,  as  a  jeweller  shows  his  diamonds 
and  pearls,  on  a  gorgeous  background  of  rich  colored 
velvet,  to  dazzle  a  customer.  His  wit  and  knowledge  of 
great  authors  and  great  events  made  me  long  to  match 
his  with  mine,  but  my  treasure-chest  was  empty.  I  had 
never  filled  it.  Yet,  though  I  knew  little,  and  had  read 
little  that  was  worth  reading,  I  had  thought  some  strange 
thoughts  about  life,  which  I  had  never  put  into  words  for 
any  one.  There  had  been  nobody  who  would  have  cared 
to  hear  my  thoughts  spoken.  This  man  made  me  feel 
that  here  was  a  master  of  music  who  would  listen  to  my 
little  improvisations,  and  understand  them.  Still,  under- 
neath that  feeling  was  another;  an  instinct,  rather,  which 

wished  to  tell  me  that  in  the  nature  of  X was  a 

pavement  of  stone,  under  a  bank  of  hot  red  roses.  A 
woman  might  break  herself  on  that  stone,  yet  she  would 
first  have  had  the  sweetness  of  the  roses.  Something  in 
me  recognized  that  he  was  more  dangerous  than  the 
Russian,  therefore  more  attractive,  and  that  he  was 
putting  forth  all  his  powers  to  awake  my  interest.  I 
knew  that  he  meant  to  make  me  love  him,  if  he  could ; 
and  —  he  was  Paris  ! 

He  told  me  about  the  woman  who  had  created  the 
part  I  was  to  judge.  He  sketched  her  in  a  few  words, 
as  a  painter  dashes  off  the  first  rough  outlines  for  a 
portrait.  I  saw  her  through  his  eyes  :  strange,  vivid  as  a 
passion-flower,  wicked  as  nightshade,  intoxicating  as  old 
Spanish  wine.  But  as  he  talked  of  the  French  actress  he 
looked  at  me,  and  his  eyes  said  he  thought  only  of  me, 
seeing  me  in  the  part  which  was  the  sensation  of  Paris. 


288  To  M.  L.  G. 

"  You  could  be  all  that  that  other  woman  is,"  he  said 
at  last. 

"  Wicked,  too  ?  "     I  laughed  as  I  asked  the  question. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  answered.  "  A  knowledge  of  what 
stupid  people  call  vice  educates  heart  and  soul,  as  cold 
virtue  never  can.  To  be  a  great  actress,  a  woman  must 
know  all,  feel  all,  of  which  human  nature  has  been,  or 
can  be,  capable." 

I  had  this  theory  to  brood  on,  as  we  drove  quickly, 
and  without  speaking  much,  to  the  theatre. 

X had  taken  a  box ;  and  we  were  early,  because 

he  wished  to  tell  me  about  interesting  people  in  the 
audience  before  the  curtain  should  go  up.  Those  whom 
he  thought  most  worthy  of  mention  among  the  men 
were  poets  and  artists,  and  among  the  women,  celebrated 
demi-mondaines.  "  They  are  all  coming  to  see  this 
play,"  he  said.  "  It  draws  them,  as  a  light  draws  moths. 
They  can't  keep  away." 

The  women  of  whom  he  spoke,  of  whom  he  told  me 
strange  anecdotes,  in  quick  whispers,  leaning  close  to 
my  ear,  were  all  women  of  a  singular  attraction.  Even 
I,  a  woman,  could  feel  it ;  only  a  few  were  actually 
beautiful ;  some  were  even  plain,  yet  I  felt  that  they 

might  reign  as  queens  over  men.  I  believed  that  X 

thought  I  had  in  me  something  of  their  power,  still  un- 
developed, and  that  he  was  willing  me  with  all  his  force 
to  develop  it. 

"  Is  the  woman  who  plays  my  part  like  these  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Wait  and  see,"  he  said,  mysteriously. 

He  had  not  told  me  much  of  the  play  ;  and  from  Mr. 
O ,  a  man  of  few  words,  I  had  heard  only  the  bare 


To   M.  L.  G.  289 

plot.  As  the  curtain  went  up,  I  was  conscious  of  keen 
curiosity,  yet  I  was  thinking  more  about  myself  than 
of  the  stage.  I  was  ready  to  throw  my  soul  into  the 
part,  if  it  appealed  to  me,  yet  I  wished  to  make  it  mine 
not  to  give  myself  to  it. 

Unlike  most  plays,  which  lead  up  to  the  entrance  of 
the  principal  people,  the  hero  and  heroine  were  dis- 
covered on  the  stage.  And  now,  though  I  have  not 
told  you  about  other  plays  which  were  of  importance 
to  me,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  of  this  one.  Soon 
you  will  see  why. 

The  girl,  and  the  boy  —  for  he  looked  only  a  few 
years  older  than  she  —  were  in  the  garden  of  a  cafe. 
There  were  others  there,  but  these  two  were  so  young 
and  vital  and  happy,  that  they  stood  out  among  all 
the  rest,  like  wood  doves  among  cockatoos.  Behind 
them,  a  big  windmill  was  slowly  turning  its  great  arms, 
dreamily  and  impersonally ;  yet  the  lazy  arms  as  they 
went  up  seemed  to  be  raised  in  a  gesture  of  genial 
blessing  on  the  lovers.  In  the  garden  were  a  great 
many  little  tables,  and  most  of  the  people  were  drink- 
ing ;  but  the  two  wood  pigeons  were  cooing  to  each 
other.  They  had  glasses  on  their  table,  as  the  rest  had, 
but  they  had  forgotten  everything  except  one  another, 

and  the  glasses  were  full.  X explained  in  a  whisper 

that  the  scene  was  a  realistic  picture  of  the  Moulin 
Rouge,  and  said  that  he  would  take  me  there  after  the 
play,  or  on  any  other  night,  if  it  would  amuse  me  to  go. 
I  murmured,  "  Yes,  oh  yes ! "  but  I  scarcely  heard ;  for 
I  saw  myself  there  in  the  garden,  with  an  ideal  lover, 
such  as  I  had  never  known,  and  perhaps  would  never 
know. 


290  To   M.  L.  G. 

The  girl  and  boy  had  met  for  the  first  time  a  few 
nights  before,  at  this  very  place.  She  was  a  little  dress- 
maker of  Paris,  young,  with  a  pulsing  vitality,  and  still 
innocent  in  act.  But  her  heart  was  a  strange,  tropical 
garden,  ready  for  the  sowing  of  any  seed.  He  begged 
her  to  give  herself  to  him.  They  would  be  everything 
to  each  other,  forever  and  ever.  He  was  an  artist,  and 
made  not  too  much  money  as  yet,  but  some  day  he 
would  be  rich,  and  all  good  things  that  came  to  him 
would  be  for  her.  She  said  that  she  loved  him,  and 
did  not  care  for  money.  If  they  had  each  other  always, 
it  would  be  enough.  It  was  spring  in  Paris,  and  in  the 
garden,  and  spring  in  their  lives.  One  hardly  knew 
that  one  heard  music,  but  it  played  softly  and  con- 
tinuously as  a  trickling  fountain,  and  there  was  the 
throb  of  spring  in  its  wistful  notes.  I  put  myself  in  the 
girl's  place,  seeing  not  the  French  actress  with  her 
Egyptian  features  and  long  eyes,  but  myself.  The  boy 
was  not  for  me  merely  a  handsome  actor  playing  the 
part  of  a  young  man  in  his  first  passion  :  he  became  the 
Spirit  of  Youth  and  Love. 

The  girl,  in  realizing  that  she  loved  the  boy,  carried 
out  of  herself,  had  forgotten  the  motive  which  brought 
her  to  the  garden  that  night ;  but  suddenly  she  re- 
membered, for  a  man  strolled  on  to  the  stage  :  a  man, 
middle-aged,  blase,  carefully  dressed,  clinging  desperately 
to  the  ragged  edges  of  his  youth.  He  had  come  to  find 
the  girl.  Day  after  day  he  had  followed  her  in  the  street. 
He  had  spoken  to  her,  promising  to  give  her  all  that  she 
had  ever  wanted  in  life,  or  envied  others.  At  last,  she 
had  agreed  to  meet  him  in  the  garden. 

It  was  as  if  the  snake  crawled  out  from  among  flowers 


To  M.  L.  G.  291 

while  the  young  Adam  and  Eve  spoke  their  first  words 
of  love.  The  sweet  spring  music  fell  from  its  youthful 
treble  to  a  lower  key. 

The  girl  had  told  the  boy  nothing  about  this  man,  not 
because  she  deliberately  planned  to  deceive  him,  but 
because  he  and  love  had  made  her  forget.  The  man 
saw  her,  and,  coming  up,  claimed  her  acquaintance,  as  if 
she  belonged  to  him.  The  boy  believed  that  he  had 
been  betrayed.  And  so  the  Spirit  of  Love  and  Youth 
vanished  out  of  the  girl's  life.  She  felt  that  nothing 
could  be  as  it  had  been.  A  stubborn  streak  of  fatalism 
in  her  nature  would  not  let  her  call  love  back,  and  there 
was  no  returning  to  the  old,  childish  days,  after  such 
feverish,  crowded  hours  of  woman's  life.  She  consented 
to  go  with  the  man. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  act ;  her  decision. 

The  next  scene  was  at  the  Ritz  Hotel,  where  X 

and  I  had  dined.  I  could  see  the  very  table  where  we 
had  sat.  A  year  had  passed  since  the  night  in  the 
garden,  when  the  arms  of  the  windmill  rose  in  blessing, 
and  fell  in  cursing,  the  lovers.  The  girl  was  no  longer 
the  same  merry  little  milliner.  The  strange  garden  of 
her  heart,  ready  for  blossoming  a  year  ago,  had  flowered 
with  tropical  blooms.  All  the  fantastic  possibilities  of 
her  untried  nature  had  developed,  as  if  in  a  hothouse. 
She  had  become  a  brilliant  courtesan,  and  in  the  summer 
of  her  success  the  buds  of  spring  seemed  pale  and  cold. 
Dazzled  with  her  own  splendor,  she  was  so  gay  that  she 
did  not  miss  happiness.  Already  she  had  left  the  first 
man  who  had  launched  her  on  the  tide  of  success.  She 
was  with  a  Russian  prince,  who  valued  her,  not  for  her- 
self (he  did  not  understand,  or  trouble  to  understand,  her 


292  To   M.  L.  G. 

nature),  but  because  she  was  la  femme  la  plus  chere,  la 
plus  difficile.  She  was  the  Koh-i-noor  of  the  half  world, 
where  women  can  be  bought  like  diamonds.  There  were 
other  men  around  her,  who  envied  the  Prince,  and  women 
who  envied  her  the  prize  she  had  taken  from  them. 

The  sweet  minor  music  of  spring  had  changed  to  vo- 
luptuous notes ;  but  suddenly  the  old  delicate  motif  began 
again,  in  the  midst  of  the  deeper  chords.  It  sounded 
like  the  spraying  of  a  fountain  on  apple  blossoms,  among 
a  tangle  of  passion-flowers.  The  boy  who  had  loved 
the  girl  in  the  garden  came  upon  the  scene  with  a  friend 
whose  wife's  portrait  he  was  painting.  He  had  been 
away  from  Paris,  in  the  north  for  many  months,  and 
knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened,  but  he  had  never 
forgotten  the  garden,  and  the  love  he  had  found  and 
lost.  Now,  when  he  heard  men  talking  of  the  Prince's 
mistress,  he  turned  to  look,  and  recognized  in  the  woman 
the  girl  he  had  adored.  She  recognized  him  also,  while 
the  audience  felt  the  thrill  of  the  spring  music ;  but  she 
had  no  regrets.  The  Spirit  of  Youth  and  Love  passed 
by,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  turned  away  from  him 
in  the  garden,  to  stray  into  the  path  paved  with  gold. 

In  the  third  act,  one  year  later,  the  Russian  prince 
had  tired  of  his  mistress,  and  left  her  for  another  woman, 
encore  plus  chere,  encore  plus  difficile.  Still  a  great  courte- 
san, she  had  taken  a  step  down.  The  world  knew  why 
the  Prince  had  deserted  her  for  a  rival,  and  eyes  that 
had  looked  only  at  her  turned  to  the  other  woman,  who 
was  more  dear  and  more  difficult.  The  star  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  a  rich  merchant  —  the  one  comic 
character  in  the  play,  accentuating  its  tragedy.  Even 
he  did  not  love  the  splendid  creature  he  had  bought 


To  M.  L.  G.  293 

To  him,  she  was  worth  her  price  because  she  had  been 
the  Prince's  mistress.  He  boasted  proudly  of  what  she 
cost  him,  and  of  his  predecessor,  "  a  serene  highness." 
In  public  he  made  much  of  her.  In  private,  he  taunted 
her  because  the  Prince  had  cast  her  off  for  a  jewel  more 
rare  than  she. 

The  voluptuous  music  had  strident  notes  in  it,  as  the 
Prince  appeared  with  his  new  acquisition.  The  mer- 
chant coveted  the  reigning  beauty,  because  what  was 
"  good  enough  for  royalty  was  not  too  good  for  him." 
The  scene  was  Monte  Carlo,  and  the  Prince  had  just 
refused  his  new  mistress  a  rope  of  pearls  which  had 
belonged  to  an  Empress.  The  merchant  bought  and 
offered  it  to  her,  in  the  hearing  of  the  dethroned  queen. 

They  were  at  a  ball,  given  by  the  Casino.  Many 
artists  were  there,  and  among  them  the  boy  of  the 
garden,  now  a  man,  his  heart  saddened,  but  not  wholly 
changed.  So  again  the  Spirit  of  Youth  and  Love  drew 
near  the  woman  for  a  moment,  and,  by  beckoning  him, 
she  might  even  then  have  brought  him  back  into  her 
life.  But,  broken  and  disappointed  as  she  was,  Love 
and  Youth  had  lost  all  charm  for  her.  Their  sweetness 
would  have  been  like  water  after  champagne. 

In  the  last  act,  fifteen  years  had  passed,  since  the  first 
scene  in  spring  time,  in  the  garden.  But  again  the  scene 
was  laid  in  the  same  garden.  Outwardly,  all  was  as  it 
had  been.  It  was  spring,  as  before,  and  delicate  early 
flowers  were  in  bloom,  as  in  that  dead  year,  long  ago. 
There  were  the  same  little  tables  in  the  same  places; 
and  in  the  background  the  great  arms  of  the  windmill 
went  up  and  down  impersonally  and  dreamily.  Only 
the  people  were  changed.  New  waiters  hurried  about, 


294  To   M.  L.  G. 

serving  new  people;  pretty  girls  and  young  men  who 
would  have  been  little  children  at  the  time  of  the  first 
act.  At  the  table  where  the  girl  and  her  lover  had  sat, 
other  lovers  sat  now.  Two  or  three  of  the  old  set  re- 
turned as  the  act  went  on,  and  the  artist,  successful  and 
rich,  appeared  with  a  young  wife  whom  he  loved.  As 
he  told  her  of  the  past,  and  the  old  passion,  found  and 
lost  in  this  garden,  no  longer  regretted  now,  the  music 
changed.  All  the  old  notes  blended,  as  if  with  surging 
memories,  became  strident,  then  monotonous,  as  the 
moving  of  the  windmill's  arms,  and  eventually  muffled, 
coarsened,  the  first  elusive  motif  swallowed  up  in  jarring 
sounds.  The  woman  he  had  loved  was  coming  into  the 
garden,  walking  mechanically,  as  if  her  feet  brought  her 
along  the  well-known  way  almost  without  her  volition. 
The  man  had  just  told  his  bride  that  he  saw  the  garden 
again  now  for  the  first  time  in  fifteen  years ;  but  the 
woman's  step  and  unseeing  eyes  told  the  audience  that 
she  had  wandered  in  every  night  at  the  same  hour,  year 
after  year. 

Somehow,  without  painting  lines  or  hollows  on  her 
face,  the  actress  with  the  strange  Egyptian  features  had 
made  herself  appear,  not  fifteen,  but  twenty  years  older. 
It  was  a  wonderful  transformation,  which  could  be  felt 
by  those  who  saw  it,  rather  than  defined.  And  the 
change  was  not  the  ordinary  gentle  change  from  vivid 
youth  to  placid  middle  age.  There  were  no  wrinkles  to 
be  seen.  The  woman's  hair  showed  no  gray.  She  had 
neither  grown  fat,  nor  wasted  visibly  in  figure ;  yet  she 
looked  as  old  as  the  world,  as  old  as  sin.  In  her  gaudy 
dress  and  fashionable  hat,  expensive  but  slightly  passee, 
she  was  a  galvanized  corpse,  not  a  living  woman  with 


To  M.  L.  G.  295 

warm  blood  in  her  veins,  and  a  beating  heart.  Her 
great  burnt-out  eyes  were  dead  fires,  not  to  be  rekindled 
ever,  by  any  light  of  joy  or  hope.  All  the  elasticity  of 
youth  had  gone  from  her  muscles,  though  in  years  she 
was  not  an  old  woman,  scarcely  even  of  middle  age. 
She  dragged  herself  along  as  if  dazed  as  well  as  weary. 
She  did  not  lift  her  feet  from  the  ground.  Her  shoulders 
drooped.  Her  arms  hung  straight  down  at  her  sides,  as 
if  she  carried  weights  in  her  hands.  Her  head  bent 
forward,  and  yet  her  lips  wore  a  faint  smile,  sad  as  the 
faded  perfume  of  pot-pourri.  People  spoke  to  her,  not 
unkindly,  yet  as  if  she  were  a  thing  of  no  importance,  a 
withered  leaf  out  of  place  among  spring  flowers.  She 
answered  without  change  of  expression.  She  was  per- 
fectly conscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  but  it  was  the 
consciousness  of  a  body  without  a  soul. 

I  had  never  seen  an  absinthe  drinker  on  the  stage  or 
in  real  life ;  yet  I  knew  that  this  woman  had  killed  her 
youth  with  wormwood,  had  blotted  out  ambition  and 
hope.  There  was  nothing  left  for  her  in  this  world  but 
more  absinthe,  and  then  more. 

The  man  who  had  loved  her  once  saw  and  shrank  from 
her  with  horror.  I  could  see  him  wondering  why  he 
had  ever  worshipped  or  regretted  this  galvanized  dead 
thing.  Quickly  he  moved  away  with  his  young  bride, 
as  if  to  save  her  from  pollution.  The  woman's  eyes 
turned  towards  him  as  he  went,  moved  after  him  with  a 
faint  gleam  of  interest  which  died  as  it  was  born.  The 
lovers  at  the  table  where  she  had  once  sat  listening  to  the 
boy's  prayers  got  up,  and  strolled  happily  off,  their  arms 
linked,  their  heads  close  together.  The  woman,  seeing 
the  table  free,  moved  heavily  to  it,  and  let  herself  drop 


296  To   M.  L.  G. 

into  the  chair  the  young  girl  had  left.  There  was  no 
tragedy  of  despairing  memory  in  her  eyes,  only  the 
tragedy  of  a  dead  soul.  She  did  not  care  that  the 
Spirit  of  Love  and  Youth  had  passed  away  from  her  for- 
ever. She  had  forgotten  what  its  charm  had  been.  She 
ordered  absinthe,  and  sipped  it,  as  the  curtain  slowly 
fell. 

"  That  girl  gives  the  finest  portrayal  of  une  beuveuse 

d' absinthe  I  have  ever  seen,"  X said.  "  I  have  been 

watching  you  as  you  studied  her." 

"  I  was  not  studying  her,"  I  answered,  hardly  knowing 
that  I  spoke  aloud. 

"  Not  studying  her  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  I  see !  You 
were  thinking  how  you  would  play  the  part  yourself." 

"  I  was  —  thinking,"  I  echoed.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  I  spoke.  My  throat  felt  dry  and  contracted,  as  if 
a  fierce  hand  had  pressed  it,  choking  my  breath  away.  I 

got  up,  and  X put  my  cloak  around  my  shoulders, 

touching  my  bare  neck  with  his  warm,  vital  hand.  His 
magnetism  did  not  thrill  me  as  it  had  before. 

"  The  play  has  taken  hold  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I  un- 
derstand." 

But  he  did  not  understand. 

He  asked,  as  we  went  out,  if  I  would  like  to  have 
supper  at  the  Moulin  Rouge,  and  see  the  real  arms  of 
the  windmill  moving  behind  the  garden.  I  said  "  No," 
quickly,  then  thanked  him,  and  explained  that  I  would 
rather  go  there  another  night.  I  was,  I  explained,  just 
beginning  to  realize  that  I  was  tired  after  my  journey.  I 
added  that  I  had  been  ill  before  sailing  and  was  obliged  to 
be  a  little  careful  still.  The  truth  was  that  I  could  hardly 
wait  to  get  home  and  to  be  alone.  I  felt  broken.  All 


To   M.  L.  G.  297 

the  life  had  gone  out  of  my  body.  X had  lost  his 

attraction  for  me,  and  I  think  he  knew  this.  It  would  have 
been  the  same  to  me  if  he  had  been  a  tiresome  old  woman. 

Now  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  at  such  length 
about  the  play.  And  yet —  do  you  know  ? 

Perhaps  you  think  —  if  you  have  come  as  far  as  this 
in  the  statement  I  am  writing  to  you,  and  if  you  have 
read  a  little  between  the  lines  here  and  there  —  that  a 
sudden  tide  of  sentimental  repentance  had  swept  over 
me.  But  if  you  think  that,  you  are  wrong.  It  was  not 
with  me  as  with  some  sinners  who  go  to  a  revival  meet- 
ing, or  read  a  tract.  I  did  not  repent  my  past,  or  agonize 
over  it,  or  even  feel  that  I  had  been  wicked  or  vile. 
Something  very  different  had  happened  to  me.  I  was 
seeing  myself  in  past  and  future,  in  a  bright,  merciless 
light,  as  clearly  as  I  used  to  see  my  mysterious  little 
friend,  Lily  Merritt,  in  the  looking-glass. 

I  saw  myself  with ,  climbing  to  success  on  the 

ladder  of  his  money  and  influence,  then  being  discarded 
by  him  for  another  woman.  I  saw  myself  accepting 

Willy  V to  revenge  myself  on  Margaret,  and  then 

reaping  advantage  from  his  position  in  society.  I  saw 
myself  playing  my  dangerous  game  with  the  Russian. 

All  that  in  the  past.  And  in  the  future,  I  saw  myself 
living  the  life  I  had  half  resolved  to  lead  when  I  came  to 

Paris.  I  saw  myself  with  the  Russian,  with  X ,  with 

the  Texan,  with  others,  testing  my  power  over  men, 
holding  it  fora  while,  then  slowly  losing  it  with  my  youth 
and  beauty  and  joy  of  life.  I  saw  all  my  lovers,  all  my 
friends  leaving  me,  and  I  saw  how  I  would  be  driven  to 
console  myself  in  the  end,  when  I  was  no  longer  wanted 
by  any  one.  No  detail  of  the  picture  was  spared  me. 


298  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  was  not  repentant.  I  was  only  afraid.  I  could  have 
died  with  the  coldness  of  my  fear. 

I  had  promised  to  cable  Mr.  O what  I  thought  of 

the  play  and  of  the  woman's  part.  By  the  time  I  re- 
membered him  and  the  promise  it  was  too  late  to  send 
a  message  that  night ;  but  I  scribbled  it  out  on  paper 
ready  for  the  morning.  "  The  part  is  great,  but  I  cannot 
do  it.  Writing." 

Next  day  I  wrote  a  short  letter,  because  I  did  not  feel 
equal  to  explaining  my  state  of  mind  in  a  long  one.  I 
said :  "  If  I  acted  that  part  badly,  the  play  would  be 
dead.  If  I  acted  it  well,  I  should  go  mad." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

EVEN  now,  I   could  not  make  clear  to  any  one, 
even  to  you,  either  by  writing  or  speaking,  the 
immeasurable  effect  of  that  play  upon  my  whole 
nature. 

It  was  not  a  great  play.  It  appealed  to  the  emotions 
rather  than  to  the  intellect.  With  a  different  ending,  one 
could  have  gone  away  and  forgotten  it.  Perhaps,  if  I 
had  not  been  ready  to  absorb  its  meaning  and  message  as 
a  sponge  absorbs  water,  I  should  merely  have  been 
vaguely  depressed ;  and  regaining  my  spirits  I  should 
have  become  my  old  self  again.  But  preparing  to  act 
the  part,  I  had  so  entered  into  it,  that  for  the  time  being 
I  and  the  woman  of  the  play  were  one.  Besides,  the 
accident  of  the  second  lover  being  a  Russian  of  high 
title  was  to  me,  in  my  highly-strung  mood,  more  than  a 
coincidence.  I  saw  myself  on  the  same  path  the  woman 
had  trodden,  going  down,  down  from  the  garden  of 
tropical  flowers  to  a  place  of  darkness,  among  bestial 
shapes  that  writhed  and  wallowed. 

I  saw  that  for  a  woman  who  chooses  the  life  this  woman 
chose,  the  life  I  had  thought  of  choosing,  there  must  in- 
evitably be  the  Place  of  Darkness,  when  youth  is  gone 
and  love  has  tired.  No  religious  scruples  held  me  back 
from  such  life.  I  had  none.  I  was  not  sure  that  any  God 
existed,  or  that,  if  there  were  a  God,  He  would  care  what 
I  did  with  myself.  I  clung  to  homely,  domestic  things 
in  the  cold  horror  of  my  great  fear ;  and  I  clung  to  Jane. 

299 


300  To  M.  L.  G. 

I  lay  in  bed,  and  let  her  take  care  of  me.  Jane  was 
happiest  and  at  her  best  as  a  nurse.  She  thought  that  I 
had  done  too  much  on  my  first  day  in  Paris,  and  wanted 
to  call  in  a  doctor,  but  I  begged  her  to  let  me  rest,  see- 
ing no  one.  The  Russian  called  and  sent  flowers,  the 

Texan  also.  X wrote  me  a  letter  in  verse.  All 

three  of  those  men,  and  all  other  men,  seemed  far  away 
and  shadowy.  I  did  not  care  if  I  never  heard  again  from 
any  one  I  knew.  The  touch  of  the  cool  linen  pillows  and 
sheets  was  very  good.  I  was  not  ill,  in  mind  or  body ; 
but  my  bed  was  like  a  safe,  pleasant  island  in  the  midst 
of  a  wild  sea.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  going  out 
of  my  room  ;  yet,  while  I  was  there,  with  Jane  to  take  care 
of  me,  I  was  not  unhappy. 

I  am  not  sure  what  would  have  befallen  me  in  those 
days  if  Jane  had  not  been  there.  But  Jane  was  always 
there,  always,  then  and  afterwards  ;  until  the  year  before 
you  and  I  met.  Then  she  died.  I  have  never  ceased  to 
miss  her ;  but  never  have  I  missed  her  so  much  as  since 
the  day  when  I  let  you  go.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort 
to  me  to  have  Jane  now.  Since  you  went  I  have  been 
oftener  to  Kensal  Green,  where  I  had  a  plain  marble  cross 
made  to  mark  her  grave,  just  the  kind  she  would  have 
admired,  and  called  "  plain  but  rich  "  —  a  favorite  expres- 
sion of  hers.  I  take  with  me  her  favorite  flowers,  too, 
when  I  can  find  them  in  shops  or  gardens.  Such  a 
quaint,  old-fashioned  sort  of  flower !  I  wonder  if  you 
know  it  ?  I  have  never  heard  the  scientific  name  ;  but  I 

saw  it  first  at  Mrs.  G 's  farm  in  New  Hampshire.  It 

is  called  "  bleeding  heart,"  a  sad,  pensive  bloom,  but  not 
hopeless. 

I  lay  quietly  in  bed  for  three  days,  after  the  night  of 


To   M.  L.  G.  301 

the  play  in  Paris.  I  dozed  a  good  deal,  for  sleep  seemed 
to  give  me  more  counsel  than  strenuous  thinking.  I  had 
a  curious  feeling  that  Iwas  making  myself  over  again. 
Several  people  I  knew  at  home  had  read  in  the  papers 
that  I  had  arrived  in  Paris,  and  they  called  at  my  hotel ; 
but  I  would  not  see  them.  I  was  afraid  that  if  any  one 
I  had  known  came  near  me  now,  some  emanation  from 
their  thoughts  of  me,  as  I  had  been,  would  pull  me  back. 
Sometimes  when  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  let  myself  drift,  I 
seemed  to  be  on  a  mountainside,  climbing  all  alone, 
slowly  and  with  difficulty,  not  daring  to  turn  and  look 
over  my  shoulder,  lest  my  feet  should  slip.  I  knew  that 
this  was  only  a  half-dream  between  sleeping  and  waking, 
yet  it  was  impressed  upon  me  at  the  moment  with  a  sharp 
semblance  of  reality.  I  could  see  my  own  figure,  on  the 
dark  rocks,  in  a  kind  of  luminous  twilight,  wearing  a  gray 
travelling  dress  which  I  had  brought  with  me,  but  had 
never  put  on  yet. 

One  day  I  asked  Jane  what  she  thought  God  was  like. 
She  threw  me  a  shocked  glance,  to  see  if  I  were  "  making 
fun  " ;  but  was  reassured  when  I  looked  her  straight  in 
the  eyes,  gravely  and  almost  anxiously.  She  was  pleased 
with  me  that  day,  because  of  a  message  I  had  sent  the 
Russian,  which  would  prevent  him  from  coming  again, 
ever ;  so  she  answered  my  question  in  good  faith.  God 
had  made  us  in  His  image,  therefore  He  must  be  like  a 
man,  she  thought,  only  much  larger  than  even  the  tallest 
giants  ever  born.  He  would  always  be  sitting  on  a 
throne,  of  course,  with  His  Son  beside  Him,  still  in  the 
form  of  man,  therefore  not  so  grand  and  gigantic  as  God  the 
Father,  who  would,  Jane  thought,  have  a  long  gray  beard. 

I  suggested  that  gray  hairs  were  a  sign  of  decaying 


302  To   M.  L.  G. 

vitality,  but  Jane  could  not  change  her  picture.  To  her, 
a  gray  beard  meant  supreme  dignity,  and  she  felt  it 
would  be  irreverent  to  imagine  God  the  Father  without 
it.  She  was  not  clear  in  her  idea  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Vaguely  she  felt  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  form  any  con- 
ception of  the  mystic  Spirit.  She  saw  the  Holy  Ghost 
behind  a  bright  veil;  but  all  Three  would  be  on  the 
throne  together,  a  golden  throne,  with  a  golden  back- 
ground of  radiance  too  dazzling  for  human  eyes.  The 
goats,  on  the  left,  would  certainly  be  blinded  by  it ;  and 
when  they  were  judged,  they  would  plunge  down  into 
outer  darkness,  where  there  was  no  more  light  except  the 
red  glare  of  hell  fires. 

"  Jane,  do  you  think  I  will  be  a  goat,  and  go  to  hell  ?  " 
I  asked. 

Jane  burst  into  tears,  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  her 
cry.  It  was  extraordinary  how  quickly  her  nose  grew 
red,  and  how  large  it  swelled  in  a  moment.  There  were 
queer  workings  in  her  throat,  like  a  chicken's  claws,  but 
she  made  no  sound,  except  afterwards  when  she  blew  her 
nose.  She  admitted  having  feared  that  I  might  go  to 
hell ;  but  she  believed  now  that  her  prayers  for  me  were 
answered,  and  that  I  would  be  saved. 

"  What  is  heaven  like  ?  "  I  asked  then,  and  Jane  was 
very  happy  to  answer.  She  knew  all  about  heaven,  as 
well  as  if  she  had  been  there,  and  was  eloquent  on  the 
subject.  The  sheep,  on  the  right  hand,  would  be  given 
white  robes  and  crowns.  They  would  stand  before  the 
throne,  playing  golden  harps  and  singing  psalms  of  praise 
without  ceasing.  Eternity  would  be  one  long,  glorious 
Sabbath.  It  did  not  seem  in  the  least  funny  to  her,  to 
talk  of  sheep  in  white  robes  and  golden  crowns. 


To   M.  L.  G.  303 

I  was  horribly  depressed,  for  it  seemed  as  if  Jane  ought 
to  know  what  heaven  was  like,  if  there  were  any ;  and  I 
almost  hoped  there  was  not.  Then  I  closed  my  eyes ; 
and  it  came  to  me  that  Jane  saw  only  those  things  for 
which  her  comprehension  was  fitted.  Poor  Jane  !  The 
most  bloodthirsty  psalms  were  those  she  liked  best, 
though  she  would  not  kill  a  fly,  and  always  saved  one 
that  fell  into  the  water,  while  detesting  it  for  being  a  fly. 

"  According  to  you,  God  isn't  as  good  to  goats  as  you 
are  to  flies,"  I  said  to  her  on  one  of  those  days  in  Paris, 
while  I  still  kept  my  bed,  building  up  a  new  self.  But 
Jane  replied  without  hesitation  that  that  was  different,, 
because  she  was  not  a  Judge.  And  she  believed  im- 
plicitly in  Adam  and  Eve,  and  the  Snake,  and  the  apple, 
and  the  world  having  been  created  in  six  days  of  ordinary 
length. 

The  first  time  that  I  felt  like  sitting  up,  I  made  a 

mental  effort  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mr.  O .  I 

began  by  trying  to  explain  why  I  could  not  play  the  part 
he  had  sent  me  to  see ;  but  I  found  a  logical  explanation 
impossible.  I  tore  up  several  sheets  of  paper,  and  even 
the  version  I  let  stand  was  a  strange  jumble.  I  might 
just  as  well  have  said,  "  I  can't  do  it,  just  because"  as 
have  tried  to  string  together  a  bundle  of  reasons  why. 
In  a  postscript  I  mentioned  the  names  of  two  actresses 
who  might,  I  thought,  do  the  part  successfully  if  he  de- 
cided to  have  the  play  translated. 

I  did  not  leave  my  room  until  I  knew,  from  reading 
the  newspapers,  that  the  Russian  had  gone  home,  and 
that  the  Texan,  whose  name  was  almost  as  well  known 
as  the  Russian's  in  America  and  Paris,  had  started  for 
Switzerland.  X I  had  offended  by  not  answering 


304  To  M.  L.  G. 

his  rhymed  letter.  He  had  neither  written  nor  called 
since  sending  it,  and  I  did  not  think  that  he  would  come 
near  me  again.  When  I  began  to  go  about,  the  things 
in  which  I  had  expected  to  be  most  interested  in  Paris 
did  not  appeal  to  me.  I  did  not  want  to  go  to  any  more 
theatres.  I  did  not  care  to  wander  among  the  shops. 
There  seemed  no  motive  to  buy  dresses  or  hats.  I  did 
not  know  what  I  was  going  to  do  in  future,  and  so  I 
could  not  tell  what  I  should  need  to  wear.  I  knew  only 
one  thing :  that  I  had  an  overwhelming  repugnance  to 
returning  to  America  in  the  autumn,  as  I  had  of  course 
expected  to  do ;  and  that  I  could  not  face  the  idea  of 
taking  up  my  life  where  I  had  left  it  off  with  my  attack 
of  grippe. 

I  drove  every  morning  alone  in  the  Bois,  not  trying  to 
make  up  my  mind,  but  living  in  the  hour.  In  the  after- 
noons I  sat  with  Jane,  in  a  chair  under  the  trees  in  the 
Champs  Elysees,  and  lazily,  yet  not  languidly,  watched 
little  French  children  playing  with  red  balloons  and  tops. 

One  evening,  when  we  had  walked  back  to  my  hotel, 

I  found  O reading  a  newspaper  in  the  hall,  and 

quietly  waiting  for  me. 

"  What  have  you  come  over  for?"  I  exclaimed,  when 
we  had  shaken  hands. 

"  To  talk  to  you  about  your  letter,"  h<?  answered,  in  his 
•calm  voice. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  explain,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me,  as  I  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite 
him. 

"  I  won't  ask  you  to  explain,"  he  said.  "  We  will  just 
talk." 

We  talked ;  and  I  think  that  he  began  to  understand, 


To  M.  L.  G.  305 

in  spite  of,  rather  than  because  of,  anything  I  could  say* 
He  must  have  known  the  history  of  my  life  since  I  was 
sixteen ;  and  it  had  often  seemed  to  me  that  in  some  ways 
he  was  clairvoyant.  He  knew  why  people  did  mysterious 
things,  when  they  did  not  know  themselves.  He  knew 
what  people  were  thinking  about ;  and  which  men  and 
women,  whom  others  did  not  value,  would  succeed  on 
the  stage. 

If  he  should  ever  read  what  I  am  writing  to  you,  he 
would  know  at  once  who  was  the  writer.  But  he  would 
not  tell. 

Without  waiting  for  me  to  say  that  I  did  not  feel  strong 
enough  to  act  again  in  the  autumn,  or  to  make  any  other 
excuse  for  not  going  home,  he  said,  "  If  I  were  you,  I 
wouldn't  do  anything  for  the  next  few  months,  except 
find  myself." 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  to  do  ! "  I  answered. 

"  I  know,"  said  he,  gently.  "  Well,  stay  over  on  this 
side,  till  you  are  dying  to  act  again.  Then  you  can 
cable  me.  That  maid  of  yours  will  look  after  you  well. 
And  I'll  keep  your  name  before  the  public,  so  you  needn't 
be  afraid  you'll  be  forgotten." 

Curiously,  for  the  first  time  since  I  went  on  the  stager 
I  wanted  to  be  forgotten  by  the  public.  I  thought  that  I 
would  like  great  waves  of  forgetfulness  to  roll  over  me  ; 

and  I  believed  that  Mr.  O saw  what  was  in  my  mind, 

though  he  said  nothing.  No  doubt  he  supposed  that  the 
mood  was  part  of  the  illness  I  had  not  yet  thrown  off",, 
and  that  it  would  pass.  But  I  was  not  sure.  There  were 
people  in  New  York  whom  I  could  not  bear  to  remem- 
ber. I  detested  the  idea  of  living  in  the  same  city  with 
them,  or  of  having  them  come  to  see  me  act,  even  though 


306  To  M.  L.  G. 

I  never  saw  them.  The  very  thought  of  those  people 
made  my  body  ache  all  over,  as  if  I  had  been  beaten 
with  a  hammer. 

I  see  now  that  I  must  have  been  in  a  strange  transi- 
tion state ;  yet  it  did  not  seem  at  all  strange  to  me  then. 
Every  other  state  of  mind  I  could  recall  or  imagine 
seemed  strange,  but  not  this. 

Mr.  O dined  with  me  that  evening,  and  told  me 

about  picture  galleries  I  would  enjoy,  and  museums  that 

I  ought  to  see.  He  did  not  mention  the  name  of  X , 

and  I  was  sure  that  they  must  have  met,  and  talked  of 
me.  But  I  did  not  care  what  X had  said. 

After  all,  Mr.  O did  not  have  the  play  translated, 

and  take  it  to  New  York  for  one  of  the  actresses  I  had 
recommended.  He  said,  before  bidding  me  good-bye, 
that,  having  seen  it  himself,  he  found  it  so  "  distinctly 
Parisian "  that  he  doubted  its  success  in  New  York. 
And  since  I  would  not  create  the  woman's  part  there,  no 
one  else  should.  I  liked  his  putting  it  in  this  way  better 
than  if  he  had  said  that  I  was  the  only  actress  who  could 
play  it.  To  be  told  that  I  was  of  that  type  would  have 
broken  me  just  then. 

He  must  have  seen  very  deep  into  my  mind,  far  deeper 
than  I  saw  myself;  for  without  my  suggesting  or  even 
thinking  of  it,  he  wrote  two  letters  of  introduction  for 
me,  to  London  managers.  "  You  might  take  a  fancy  to 
play  a  part  in  London  for  a  change,"  he  said.  "  If  not, 
tear  up  the  letters." 

When  he  shook  hands  in  saying  good-bye,  he  looked 
at  me  a  little  sadly,  as  if  he  guessed  that  our  parting 
would  be  for  a  long  time. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  was  very  good  for  me  that  by  the  time  I  began  to 
feel  like  sightseeing  in  Paris,  the  season  was  well 
over,  and  every  one  I  could  possibly  have  known 
had  gone  to  Trouville  or  Aix,  or  out  of  France  altogether. 
When  my  vitality  and  love  of  life  came  flowing  back  after 
the  curious  shock  I  had  had,  it  was  exactly  like  beginning 
a  new  life.  All  my  surroundings  were  new,  the  faces  I 
saw  were  new.  Suddenly  I  wanted  to  give  away  my 
clothes  that  I  had  worn  in  America,  and  buy  new  ones. 
It  was  an  interest.  And  the  museums  and  picture  gal- 
leries Mr.  O had  told  me  to  visit  gave  me  a  new  set 

of  thoughts. .  They  reawakened  my  childish  love  of  his- 
tory, on  which  Miss  Minnie  had  complimented  me  when 
I  was  a  child.  I  was  rilled  with  an  immense  craving  to 
know  all  about  the  jewels,  and  armor,  and  instruments 
of  torture,  the  statues,  and  paintings  of  historical  events. 
It  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be  true  that  I  could  read 
of  the  different  things  and  periods  in  French ;  but  I  found 
it  easy ;  no  harder  than  to  skim  through  some  flimsily 
written  French  novel,  which  used  to  be  my  way  of  prac- 
ticing in  New  York. 

Jane  went  with  me  everywhere :  to  the  Louvre  and 
the  Cluny  Museum,  and  made  me  laugh  at  her  shocked 
airs.  It  did  not  count  with  me,  Jane's  being  a  link  with 
America,  for  she  had  always  been  alien  to  the  life  I  was 
trying  to  forget. 

Precisely  what  convinced  me  that  I  must  go  to  Italy 

3°7 


308  To  M.  L.  G. 

at  once,  in  the  heat  of  September,  I  am  not  quite  sure ; 
but  I  think  that  I  must  have  dreamed  some  wonderful 
dream  of  Italy,  and  forgotten  it  in  the  moment  of  waking. 
The  desire  might  have  lingered  when  the  memory  had 
vanished,  as  the  perfume  of  lavender  will  haunt  a  broken 
bowl  in  which  it  has  been  kept.  All  I  know  is,  that  I 
opened  my  eyes  one  night,  after  being  fast  asleep,  and 
found  myself  lying  in  a  pool  of  moonlight.  I  heard  my- 
self murmur  lazily,  "  I  must  go  to  Italy."  And  though  I 
was  still  half  asleep,  the  idea  roused  me  to  such  exquisite 
excitement  that  I  heard  little  pulses  beating  in  my  ears 
and  all  over  my  body,  as  one  hears  little  unseen  brooklets 
rippling  in  the  dark. 

I  thought  about  a  picture  I  had  seen  in  a  shop  in 
a  queer  old  street  that  day,  a  copy  of  Carpaccio's  St. 
Ursula,  asleep  in  her  bed,  with  the  tiny  dog  near  her 
feet,  and  the  angel  coming  in  at  the  door.  I  saw  the 
beautiful  Italian  room,  with  the  mist  of  moonlight  veil- 
ing the  corners,  and  instantly  I  felt  that  I  should  not 
be  happy  until  I  could  go  and  sleep  in  Italian  moon- 
light. 

I  could  hardly  wait  for  morning.  When  it  came,  I 
got  up  early  and  went  out  to  buy  travel  books  about 
Italy.  I  bought  them  in  French,  because  —  more  than 
anything  —  it  gave  me  a  new  made-all-over-again  feel- 
ing, to  read  books  in  a  language  that  was  not  my  own. 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  Berlitz  teacher  in  New 
York  had  said  that  I  picked  up  French  more  quickly 
than  any  one  else  he  ever  saw,  and  that  I  must  have 
Latin  blood  in  my  veins.  You  have  said  the  same  thing. 
But  there  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  a  man  like  you 
should  never  have  thought  of  me !  I  do  not  know 


To  M.  L.  G.  309 

who  I  am,  except  that  I  had  a  father  and  mother  whom 
I  used  to  call  Dearie  and  Boy,  and  who  were  nicknamed 
the  "  Love  Birds  "  in  the  profession. 

One  of  my  books  said  that  Venice  was  delightful  in 
September.  There  were  others  which  warned  travellers 
not  to  venture  there  at  that  season,  because  of  mosquitoes 
and  other  annoyances,  but  I  wanted  to  go,  so  I  believed 
in  the  first  book. 

You,  who  know  so  much,  and  have  been  to  so  many 
countries,  almost  all  over  the  world,  can  hardly  imagine 
my  ignorance.  Most  children  of  twelve  know  as  much 
as  I  knew  about  the  geography  of  Europe ;  but  I 
had  an  appetite  for  knowledge,  and  for  sightseeing.  I 
thought  that,  above  all  things,  I  should  enjoy  seeing 
Venice  and  Rome.  But  I  did  not  guess  all  they  were 
to  be  to  me. 

I  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  bad  part  of  my  life 
now.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  that  will  hurt  you. 
I  think  that,  at  last,  what  I  tell  will  make  you  glad. 
Yet  suddenly,  even  as  I  write  these  words,  I  wonder 
whether  you  will  really  be  interested  where  you  are, 
so  far  from  me  that  I  and  my  doings  may  have  grown 
to  seem  remote  ?  How  do  I  know  that  you  have  not 
lost  interest  in  me  ?  All  these  months  that  lie  between 
us  may  have  been  built  up  into  a  high  wall,  so  high  that 
you  no  longer  even  wish  to  see  over  it.  Perhaps  when 
a  man  is  told  to  go,  by  a  woman  he  has  loved,  and  he 
believes  that  she  does  not  care,  he  begins  at  once  to 
learn  not  to  care.  And  perhaps  with  you,  the  lesson 
has  been  easy.  Why  should  it  not  be  ? 

You  know  how,  in  conversation,  you  sometimes  see 
the  person  to  whom  you  are  talking  suddenly  unhitch 


310  To  M.  L.  G. 

his  attention  from  what  you  are  saying,  and  become 
remote  from  you,  though  he  has  been  near.  You  can 
see  the  strange  thing  happening  behind  the  windows 
of  his  eyes.  It  is  just  as  if  his  soul  had  been  looking 
out  at  you ;  then,  it  turns  and  walks  away,  leaving  the 
windows  blank,  and  the  room  where  his  soul  was,  empty. 
The  soul  has  gone  off  on  an  errand  of  supreme  interest, 
and  you  and  your  concerns,  of  which  you  are  prating, 
are  forgotten.  He  thinks,  because  he  keeps  on  smiling 
politely,  that  you  don't  know  he  has  sent  his  soul  some- 
where else. 

What  if  your  soul  has  gone  away  from  me  ?  If  I 
only  knew ! 

It  is  humiliating  to  write  on  and  on,  opening  my  heart 
to  you,  knowing  that  you  may  skip  the  pages  of  its 
book.  I  would  not  so  much  mind  your  not  reading  at 
all,  because  the  reading  would  give  you  pain.  But  that 
you  should  skip  what  I  write  for  you  !  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  that  this  might  be. 

How  like  a  woman's  vanity  is  to  a  growth  of  weeds  in 
a  garden.  It  seems  possible  to  uproot  it.  Yet  it  will 
spring  up  again. 

When  I  am  afraid  that  you  have  changed  to  me,  I 
cling  in  thought  to  the  days  when  you  used  always  to 
hear  what  I  said,  and  know  what  I  was  doing,  even  if 
we  were  separated  by  a  roomful  of  people.  No  matter 
who  the  other  actors  were,  for  you  the  curtain  rang  up 
only  with  my  entrance,  and  the  stage  was  empty  after 
I  left  it.  How  well  I  knew  it  was  so  with  you,  and 
how  the  secret  joy  of  my  knowledge  was  sweet  as  stolen 
honey. 

So   easily  it   may  be   that  you  have  changed !     Yet 


To  M.  L.  G.  311 

there  is  a  consolation  which  I  whisper  to  my  soul  in 
dark  hours,  as  a  priest  gives  supreme  unction  to  the 
dying.  It  is  this  : 

You,  as  I  knew  you,  You  who  loved  me  once,  will 
live  in  my  heart  while  I  live.  That  You  can  never 
change. 

Do  you  remember  the  story  of  a  young  bride  and 
bridegroom  who  went  for  their  honeymoon  to  the 
mountains,  and  the  bridegroom  fell  into  a  crevasse, 
where  a  glacier  was  slowly,  slowly  moving  downward  ? 
In  the  story,  it  was  known  that  the  body  must  be  borne 
by  the  glacier  to  a  certain  place  at  the  end  of  half  a 
century,  and  the  girl  lived  on  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her 
dead  love  again.  Fifty  years  later  she  arrived  at  the 
appointed  place.  An  old  woman,  withered  and  gray, 
she  saw  sheathed  in  ice  the  form  of  her  bridegroom, 
young  and  handsome  as  on  the  day  he  was  lost  to  her, 
half  a  century  ago.  I  am  sure  you  must  have  heard 
that  story.  And  so  it  will  be  with  me.  I  shall  grow 
old,  and  as  the  years  go  on  you  may  forget  me.  You, 
too,  will  be  old,  and  have  a  thousand  interests  in  which 
there  will  be  no  place  for  memories.  But  that  other 
You,  which  is  mine  irrevocably,  will  be  young  always, 
and  loving.  This  You  will  be  my  companion  through 
the  years,  and  nothing  can  take  him  from  me.  So  I 
will  not  be  shamed  by  the  thought  that  I  may  be  writ- 
ing for  one  who  does  not  care  any  longer.  The  part  of 
You  which  is  mine  will  care. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

I  FIRST  saw  Venice  on  fire  with  sunset,  and  the 
new  moon  was  like  a  little  silver  lamp,  hanging 
half-way  down  the  west. 

An  English  schoolmaster  and  his  wife  in  the  train  — 
the  sort  of  people  who  love  to  advise  strangers  —  told 
me  that  Venice  in  the  hot  weather  would  be  impossible, 
and  that  I  must  go  to  the  Lido,  where  they  were  going. 
They  described  the  Lido,  and  though  they  had  a  dry, 
short  way  of  talking,  it  sounded  lovely.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  do  what  they  said ;  but  when  I  saw  what  Venice 
was  like  in  the  sunset,  I  could  not  go  away.  I  had  to 
live  there.  And  afterwards  I  was  very  glad  that  I  had 
not  taken  the  schoolmaster's  advice.  Usually  one  is  glad 
when  one  does  not  take  advice.  It  seldom  fits ;  and 
though  it  may  be  right  for  the  person  who  gives,  if  one 
takes  it,  often  it  is  like  putting  on  that  other  person's 
clothes. 

That  very  night,  sitting  at  my  window,  looking  out 
over  the  Grand  Canal,  I  knew  that  Italy  was  the  medi- 
cine I  had  needed.  I  said  to  myself  that  it  was  like 
having  died  and  come  to  heaven.  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
go  back  for  a  long,  long  time,  to  acting  in  my  own 
country.  I  must  stop  in  Italy,  and  sip  my  medicine 
slowly,  like  some  rare  golden  wine  that  would  renew 
vitality. 

Venice  was  to  me  far  more  than  just  a  miraculously 
beautiful  city.  It  was  an  epoch,  like  the  play  in  Paris, 

312 


To   M.  L.  G.  313 

only  a  very  different  one.  And  I  would  have  had  to  go 
through  the  Paris  experience  first.  Without  that,  the 
new  Me,  which  needed  Italy,  could  not  have  been  born. 

I  stayed  on  and  on,  in  a  hotel  at  first,  afterwards  in 
a  little  apartment  found  for  me  by  a  gondolier  whom  I 
hired  by  the  month.  He  was  a  delightful  man,  quite 
old,  with  a  face  that  might  have  been  cast  of  bronze. 
He  could  speak  a  little  French,  and  taught  me  a  few 
words  of  very  bad  Italian  —  Venetian  Italian,  all  con- 
sonants, with  the  vowels  left  out.  He  and  Jane  were  my 
best  friends.  And  Jane  loved  me  in  those  days  with  the 
devoted,  silent  love  that  a  watch-dog  has  for  a  child. 
She  did  not  know  in  the  least  what  was  passing  through 
my  mind,  but  she  saw  a  change  in  me,  and  dumbly  re- 
joiced in  it.  No  doubt  she  believed  always  that  her 
prayers  had  been  answered ;  and  perhaps  they  had. 

There  were  no  men  in  my  world,  then.  They  looked 
at  me  across  an  immeasurable  distance  sometimes,  and 
their  eyes  lighted  with  interest  if  I  had  put  on  a  pretty 
dress  to  grace  Pietro's  beautifully  carved  gondola.  But, 
in  their  gondolas,  they  were  for  me  only  floating  shad- 
ows. I  seemed  to  gaze  through  them  and  beyond  them 
as  if  they  were  transparent ;  and  faces  of  people  were  not 
as  interesting  to  me  as  the  marred  faces  of  old  palaces. 

I  spent  almost  all  of  every  day  in  the  gondola,  and 
saw  the  great  sights  of  Venice  from  outside  many  times 
before  I  saw  them  from  within.  In  the  evenings,  Jane 
and  I  often  had  dinner  on  the  lagoon.  We  took  food 
with  us,  in  the  gondola,  and  made  coffee  over  a  spirit 
lamp. 

I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing,  before  I  go  on.  All  the 
money  I  used  for  my  travelling  expenses  and  everything 


314  To  M.  L.  G. 

else  was  money  I  had  earned  by  hard  work.  I  had 
saved  a  little,  and  I  was  spending  it  all,  not  troubling 
very  much  as  to  what  I  should  do  when  my  savings  were 
gone.  Since  I  had  begun  to  make  money  of  my  own,  I 
had  always  taken  it  for  granted  that  it  would  come.  I 
was  either  very  imprudent  or  a  born  optimist,  according 
to  the  point  of  view;  though  I  should  hardly  have 
known,  if  any  one  asked  me,  what  the  word  "  optimist " 
meant ;  I  was  so  ignorant  still  of  most  things  which  need 
no  telling  among  your  kind  of  people.  It  was  only  a 
little  while,  comparatively,  before  you  and  I  met,  that, 
waking  up,  I  wanted  to  know  everything  in  the  world, 
and  began  to  learn  as  a  starving  person  eats.  But  even 
so,  I  learned  all  the  best  things  in  life  through  you  after- 
wards. You  may  believe  that,  and  be  glad,  if  you  will. 

It  was  at  Venice  that  I  began  to  know  the  difference 
between  real  beauty,  and  what  I  had  supposed  to  be 
beauty. 

I  have  told  you  enough  about  myself  to  make  you 
understand  that  even  when  I  was  little  more  than  a  baby, 
I  hated  ugliness,  and  loved  things  that  were  soft  and 
smooth  and  delicately  tinted.  But  I  did  not  know  the 
difference  between  the  false  and  the  real.  Venice  taught 
me  that,  and  I  learned  as  a  flower  must  learn,  once  it  has 
poked  its  head  out  of  the  earth  for  a  first  look  at  the  sky. 

From  my  windows,  not  only  could  I  see  the  Grand 
Canal,  and  a  little  canaletto,  where  the  lapping  water  had 
painted  palace  walls  with  gold  and  lilac  and  rose,  but  I 
could  look  across  a  high  wall  into  a  garden.  Lovely  rich 
vines  and  creepers  poured  over  the  wall  in  a  green 
cascade  with  a  spray  of  purple,  and  on  the  other  side 
there  was  a  gentle  waving  of  misty  tree  tops.  But  what 


To   M.  L.  G.  315 

I  loved  best  was  a  cypress  that  shot  up  like  a  pillar  of 
black  smoke  out  of  the  olive  haze.  When  I  saw  it 
against  the  morning  blue,  I  knew  that  there  was  a 
God. 

Some  people  would  think  me  mad,  or  very  childish,  to 
find  God  through  a  tree,  that  seemed  to  point  me  up  to 
Him.  But  you  are  not  "  some  people."  You  and  I  have 
had  such  miraculous  talks,  not  about  ourselves,  but  about 
the  big  mysteries,  and  the  oneness  of  everything  in  the 
universe.  I  am  not  even  sure  that  I  have  not  told  you 
once  before  about  the  tree  in  the  Venice  garden.  Yes,  I 
think  I  did  tell  you  the  day  we  went  to  the  place  where 

A lived  on  the  river,  and  we  watched  the  sunset 

behind  those  willows  that  dipped  trailing  branches  into 
the  crystal  water.  But  I  will  let  all  this  that  I  have 
written  stand  now,  because  it  is  connected  with  things 
which  I  know  I  never  told  you. 

Could  a  tree  be  an  "  epoch,"  as  Venice  was  to  me,  and 
the  play  ?  It  was  not  the  tree  alone,  but  the  tree  against 
the  sky  which  seemed  to  teach  me  in  a  moment  the 
secrets  of  eternity.  If  a  bad  thought  came  into  my 
mind,  I  hurried  and  looked  at  the  cypress.  I  got  to  im- 
agine that  I  could  hear  it  give  out  a  ringing  note,  and  I 
associated  it  with  bells  in  the  open  campaniles  which  I 
was  seeing  for  the  first  time. 

St.  Mark's  was  a  great  epoch.  I  knew  nothing  about 
architecture,  even  less  than  I  know  now,  for  Venice  sent 
me  to  Ruskin ;  and  if  anybody  had  asked  me  a  few 
weeks  before  I  came  to  Italy,  I  should  have  said  that  I 
hated  cathedrals. 

But  St.  Mark's  !  I  sat  for  hours  nearly  every  day, 
when  the  weather  grew  cool  in  October,  just  inside  the 


316  To   M.  L.  G. 

door,  gazing  up  the  nave,  soul  and  body  bathed  in  the 
golden  dusk.  It  was  there  I  found  out  that  to  be  really 
beautiful  a  woman  must  be  of  noble  nature,  because 
beauty  comes  partly  from  the  inside  to  the  outside. 
And  everything  round  me,  wherever  I  looked,  was  so 
beautiful,  that  I  longed  more  and  more  ardently  to  be  in 
the  picture,  to  become  a  part  of  it,  not  to  be  a  dark  blot 
splashed  on  the  blue  and  gold.  I  saw  why  I  had  wanted 
to  change  my  whole  self,  after  going  to  that  play  in 
Paris  —  or,  rather,  I  thought  that  I  saw.  But  I  did  not 
really  see  the  whole,  only  half  the  truth.  Now  I  know 
that  beauty  and  harmony  is  not  all  the  soul  needs. 
Then,  it  seemed  all  that  could  be  necessary. 

I  used  to  say  to  myself  as  I  sat  in  St.  Mark's :  "  A 
woman  such  as  I  was  is  out  of  the  picture  of  the  world's 
beauty.  She's  an  apple  with  a  spot  of  decay  on  its  rosy 
side."  I  thought  of  the  girl  in  the  play,  and  the  dread- 
ful end  of  the  last  act.  I  had  seen  the  horror  of  her 
degradation  with  my  uneducated,  bodily  eyes.  But  now 
the  real  Me  had  waked  up  and  was  seeing  with  spirit 
eyes. 

Venice  was  a  bath  for  my  soul.  I  was  never  tired  of 
washing  in  its  rainbow  waters  of  beauty,  and  trying  to 
feel  that  I  was  one  with  all  beauty.  Beauty  flowed  in 
waves  around  me,  while  the  waters  of  the  canal  flowed 
round  the  sides  of  the  gondola,  a  stream  of  pale  opal, 
lit  with  secret  fire  by  each  stroke  of  the  oar,  as  a  flame  is 
lit  by  a  match. 

I  began  to  think  real  thoughts,  long  thoughts,  concrete 
thoughts,  such  as  had  never  before  shaped  themselves  in 
my  mind.  The  second  time  I  saw  you  —  that  wonderful 
second  time !  —  it  was  in  a  garden,  you  know ;  and  some- 


To   M.  L.  G.  317 

how  we  talked  of  thoughts  and  gardens.  You  said : 
"  If  you  have  beautiful  thoughts  in  your  mind,  you  have 
always  a  garden  in  flower."  I  never  forgot  that  simile. 

One  Venice  thought  which  pleased  me  (though  it  was 
really  worth  nothing  at  all)  was  about  trees,  and  it  came 
as  I  looked  across  the  wall  at  the  Venice  garden  I  have 
just  told  you  of.  Whose  garden  it  was  I  never  found 
out,  for  I  made  no  acquaintances  except  Pietro.  I 
thought  that  trees  ran  in  types,  like  people.  Olives 
were  poets.  Fruit  trees  in  blossom  and  fulfillment  were 
happy  women,  living  in  homes,  among  families  who 
loved  them.  Pines  were  the  explorers  and  pioneers. 
Willows  were  young  and  beautiful  widows.  Oaks  were 

men  like  my  kind  manager,  Mr.  O ,  strong  to  rely 

upon ;  and  cypresses  were  the  monks  and  nuns  of  the 
tree  world. 

You,  who  have  always  had  your  brain  filled  with 
thoughts,  can't  realize  what  it  was  for  a  crude,  untaught 
girl  to  be  able  to  call  thoughts  to  her,  like  wild  birds 
which  she  could  tame. 

It  is  perfectly  true,  I  did  not  think  consecutively  in 
the  other  days  that  came  before  Paris.  I  only  felt,  and 
dreamed.  I  told  you  that  I  was  asleep  when  I  was  a 
very  young  girl.  But  I  came  near  to  thinking  sometimes, 
when  I  was  a  little  child.  If  there  had  been  any  one 
then  to  lead  me  out  into  a  different  life,  I  might  have 
gone  on  thinking  always,  walking  up,  higher  and  higher, 
mounting  a  golden  stairway  of  thoughts. 

When  there  was  moonlight,  often  Pietro  did  not 
bring  me  back  from  the  lagoon  till  twelve  or  after.  I 
wanted  to  wait  until  I  had  heard  the  midnight  bells  on 
the  water.  And  I  would  say  to  myself,  as  I  listened,  "  Is 


318  To  M.  L.  G. 

this  I  —  is  it  I  ?  Or  was  there  no  '  I '  before  ?  Am  I 
only  just  born  ?" 

I  have  found  myself  wishing  since  I  knew  you,  that  I 
had  met  you  in  Venice.  But  I  think  you  were  with  me 
there.  I  think  I  must  have  begun  to  feel  you  in  the 
world. 

On  the  water  at  night,  far  out  towards  the  Lido,  when 
the  gondola  seemed  to  swing  in  the  darkness  between  sea 
and  sky,  I  used  to  pretend  that  I  was  the  pendulum  in  a 
great  clock  of  the  universe,  where  the  numbers  of  the 
hours  were  stars,  and  the  pointing  hands  were  long  white 
moonrays. 

You  see,  my  thoughts  were  not  thoughts  that  would 
have  mattered  except  to  one  just  out  of  the  desert,  but, 
such  as  they  were,  I  found  them  sweet,  and  hugged  them 
to  my  breast  like  bunches  of  lilies  after  a  long  drought. 

How  I  grew  to  love  the  things  I  began  to  see,  that 
were  not  there  really !  The  things  I  imagined  into  the 
Venice  sunsets ;  the  unseen  flowers  growing  behind  the 
walls  of  gardens  I  passed  in  the  gondola  ;  the  man  some- 
where, who  was  for  me.  And  that  man  was  you. 

A 's  broad-minded  advice,  heard  since  then,  to  make 

all  ugly  things  transparent,  and  see  through  them,  would 
have  helped  me  never  to  be  ruffled  by  any  modern  vul- 
garity in  Venice.  But  I  hardly  needed  it.  I  saw  things 
as  I  wanted  to  see  them. 

I  was  rinding  out  too  much  about  the  deep  and  high 
realities  of  life  to  sleep  much  at  that  time.  But  I  did 
better  than  sleep  well ;  I  lay  awake  well.  I  had  no  more 
dreadful  fits  of  depression,  such  as  I  used  to  have  in  New 
York  and  on  tour,  when  going  to  bed  was  like  being  shut 
up  alone  in  a  black  tomb. 


To   M.  L.  G.  319 

I  wanted  to  listen  to  the  new  thoughts  every  moment. 
I  wished  that  my  mind  could  be  concave,  like  an  arum- 
lily  cup,  so  that  I  might  drink  in  each  lovely  sound  and 
sight,  and  absorb  them  all,  into  myself. 

Jane  said  that  I  was  so  thin,  she  could  not  make  my 
frocks  fit  properly.  But  I  liked  being  thin.  It  seemed 
as  if  just  so  much  of  my  old  self  had  gone  away.  Still,  I 
did  not  feel  any  true  remorse  for  my  past.  I  was  only 
dimly  sorry  to  have  been  a  jarring  note  in  the  harmony, 
although  I  was  not  clever  enough  to  know  how  or  why 
I  had  jarred. 

I  could  not  bear  to  think  of ,  or  of  poor  Willy, 

or  of  any  of  the  men  who  had  ever  come  near  me,  except 

Mr.  O ,  my  one  friend  who  was  absolutely  unselfish 

and  true,  who  helped  me  to  "  find  myself,"  when  I  was 
groping  in  the  dark. 

As  I  write  them  down,  it  comes  to  me  that  those  two 
words  of  his  mean  a  great  deal,  even  more  than  I  realized 
when  they  stepped  forward  in  my  mind,  ready  for  the 
pen.  "  Find  myself."  Yes,  they  do  mean  a  great  deal. 
I  think  that  to  find  God,  we  must  first  find  ourselves ;  for 
God  gives  intimate  help  through  the  living  spark  of  Him- 
self He  has  put  into  our  hearts,  once  we  have  found  out 
what  it  is.  That  must  be  why,  and  how,  He  has  given  us 
Himself. 

The  beauty  of  Venice  and  the  thoughts  it  gave  me 
made  me  listen  for  messages  to  my  spirit,  and  they  often 
came.  I  grew  to  feel  that  it  was  worth  being  born  and 
living  a  whole  life  just  to  see  a  single  sunrise  if  one  could 
get  its  message,  for  one  might  learn  from  it  in  a  moment 
all  that  a  long  life  ought  to  have  taught  but  had  not. 
And  it  came  to  me  that  the  universe,  with  its  suns  and 


320  To   M.  L.  G. 

stars,  the  earth,  with  its  seas  and  forests,  we  with  our  joys 
and  sorrows,  are  all,  all  one  and  the  same.  Even  the 
merciless  storms  are  not  other  than  our  own  moods,  on  a 
grand  scale. 

It  was  wonderful  to  dare  feel  myself  part  of  the  great- 
ness. 

One  day  a  vast  cloud-shadow  sailed  slowly  over  the 
lagoon,  like  an  immense  purple  canopy.  It  darkened  the 
water,  and  made  Venice  and  her  islands  look  livid  as 
drowned  corpses.  Then,  slowly  as  it  had  come,  the 
deadly  blackness  passed  away,  leaving  the  lagoon  and 
the  sky  above  clear  as  crystal.  Suddenly  I  wondered 
whether  the  black  cloud-shadow  which  had  passed  over 
my  soul  would  leave  the  stain  of  its  darkness  always,  or 
whether  I  too  might  become  crystal  clear,  and  so  be 
truly  a  part  of  the  beautiful  picture  life  was  making  all 
around  me.  I  wanted  so  much  to  become  crystal  clear 
that  I  made  the  allegory  fit,  and  I  went  on  to  tell  myself 
that  ugly  images  reflected  in  a  mirror  do  not  mark  the 
glass. 

It  was  the  happiest  day  of  my  life,  for  the  beauty  of 
everything  had  begun  to  give  me  a  shamed  sense  of  my 
own  shortcomings,  the  false  notes  my  one  little  broken 
reed  had  been  making  in  the  harmony.  I  am  not  sure  if 
that  heavy  load  of  regret  was  remorse  or  not.  If  not,  I 
never  knew  a  high,  noble  remorse  until  I  wanted  to  be  all 
good,  so  that  I  might  be  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  happiness  of  that  day,  after  the  passing  of  the 
cloud-shadow,  never  quite  died  down  in  my  heart,  until 
after  I  loved  you.  It  was  as  if  I  had  confessed  myself  a 
sinner,  and  had  been  generously  absolved  by  Nature. 
Yet,  when  I  began  to  love  you,  I  doubted  that  I  had  ever 


To   M.  L.  G.  321 

been  really  absolved.  I  saw  how  easy  it  had  been  to  be- 
lieve a  thing  because  I  wished  to  believe  it.  But  love 
came  to  me  not  as  he  comes  to  happy  young  girls,  in  the 
form  of  a  little  laughing  Cupid,  wreathed  with  roses.  He 
came  as  a  stern  accuser,  and  bade  me  fall  on  my  knees. 
Then,  in  a  vigil,  kneeling  on  the  threshold  of  his  temple, 
which  I  hardly  dared  to  cross,  I  saw  that  I  had  been 
dressing  myself  up  in  a  fancy  dress  of  spun  glass,  which 
I  had  thought  pure  crystal. 

But  all  the  days  after  that  day,  till  my  second  meeting 
with  you,  I  was  happy. 

I  discovered  Ruskin  in  Venice,  and,  better  still  —  a 
thousand  times  better  still  —  Browning.  You  know  that 
beautiful  book-shop  at  the  corner,  as  you  come  out  into 
the  piazza  of  St.  Mark's  ?  It  was  there  I  picked  up  "  The 
Stones  of  Venice,"  and  began  to  read,  and  read,  standing 
with  the  volume  in  my  hand,  and  only  waked  up  when 
some  one  pushed  against  me.  I  bought  the  book  and 
took  it  home.  Another  day  it  was  Browning  who 
plunged  me  far  down  under  the  surface  of  things,  so 
that  I  forgot  where  I  was  and  what  was  happening  around 
me. 

Can  you  believe  that,  actress  as  I  was,  I  had  never 
seriously  read  Shakespeare  since  I  grew  up,  until  I 
bought  there,  at  that  shop,  a  little  volume  containing 
"  The  Merchant  of  Venice  "  ?  Yet  it  is  true. 

I  had  seen  a  few,  a  very  few,  of  the  plays  produced  by 
popular  American  actors,  and  I  had  been  thrilled  by 
them.  But  I  imagined  it  was  the  acting  that  thrilled 
me.  I  had  not  been  seized  by  any  desire  to  read  for  my 
own  pleasure.  After  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  in 
Venice,  I  went  on  and  read  everything,  every  tragedy, 


322  To  M.  L.  G. 

every  comedy,  every  sonnet.  It  was  a  wonderful  time 
for  me  —  the  birth  of  my  intellect. 

From  Venice,  Jane  and  I  went  to  Florence  ;  and  it 
was  there  I  first  saw  olive  trees  massed  together  behind 
black  cypresses.  It  was  like  looking  at  moonlight  from 
between  prison  bars,  just  as  I  was  looking  out  at  the  light 
from  the  prison  of  my  past.  But  I  thought  then  that  the 
doors  of  the  prison  were  open.  Now  I  know  that  they 
were  never  open.  It  was  a  dream  I  had. 

At  last  we  went  to  Rome,  and  stayed  there  all  winter. 
I  took  a  little  flat  of  a  few  rooms,  with  a  servant  to  come 
in  for  two  hours  each  day,  for  I  had  to  economize.  I 

knew  that  if  I  chose  to  go  back  to  America,  Mr.  O 

would  find  an  engagement  for  me  somehow,  though  it 
was  late  in  the  season,  and  his  companies  were  made  up. 
But  I  couldn't  go  back.  I  would  rather,  as  I  felt,  have 
lived  on  crusts  of  black  bread  and  a  little  water  in  Italy 
than  have  luxury  and  a  greater  success  than  I  had  ever 
known,  in  New  York.  And  that  was  not  because  I  did 
not  love  my  own  country.  I  did  and  do.  I  had  short, 
sharp  spasms  of  homesickness,  even  then,  and  I  would 
have  defended  America  eagerly  if  any  one  had  attacked 
her  with  a  word  of  dispraise.  Yet  nothing  would  have 
tempted  me,  at  that  time,  to  go  back.  I  was  standing 
on  tiptoe  to  catch  the  glory  of  the  world,  and  Italy  was 
the  hospital  of  my  mind  and  soul.  I  had  gone  through 
a  cure  for  my  body.  Now  I  was  having  a  cure  for  spirit 
and  brain. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  you  how  sparsely  I  write 
about  the  best  part  of  my  life,  and  also  of  the  worst 
part,  though  I  spared  you  few  details  of  my  childhood. 
It  is  easy  to  explain  why  I  give  you  only  scattered 


To  M.  L.  G.  323 

incidents  of  my  good  years.  Already  I  have  talked  to 
you  of  them,  though  never  connectedly.  When  we 
were  together,  I  have  told  you  anecdotes  of  my  two 
years  in  Italy,  and  of  beautiful  things  which  struck  me 
in  travelling  there.  I  am  not  sure  now  what  I  spoke 
of,  and  it  would  be  foolish  to  repeat.  The  rest  is  less 
easy  to  explain. 

The  worst  years  I  hate  to  dwell  upon.  In  recalling 
them  and  writing  of  them,  on  the  one  side  I  fear  to 
distress  you  needlessly;  on  the  other,  I  feel  that  my 
real  desire  to  be  truthful  may  make  me  morbid.  It  is 
difficult  to  steer  between  rocks  in  that  channel.  One 
thing  I  cannot  myself  quite  understand.  The  years 

after  I  met do  not  seem  as  much  a  part  of  me, 

the  real  Me,  as  the  years  before  I  knew  him,  and  the 
years  after  I  went  to  Italy.  I  feel  as  if  my  life  were  a 
puzzle,  one  of  those  picture-puzzles  cut  in  little  pieces 
to  be  matched  together,  and  as  if  a  part  of  the  wrong 
puzzle  had  got  fitted  in.  If  it  could  be  taken  out,  and 
the  first  half  and  the  last  half  put  together,  then  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  picture  would  be  complete,  as  it  was 
meant  to  be  by  the  Maker. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  a  fact  that  I  have  forgotten 
many  things  in  those  four  or  five  bad  years  which  do 
not  fit  the  picture  I  should  have  liked  my  life  to  make. 
I  have  to  strain  after  recollections,  whereas  everything 
that  happened  in  my  childhood  is  clearly  stamped  in 
my  mind  as  the  impress  of  a  seal  in  soft  wax.  And  it 
is  the  same  with  everything  that  has  happened  to  me 
since  my  first  night  in  Venice.  I  could  tell  you  all 
about  every  day  since,  I  think,  if  it  were  worth  telling ; 
all  I  have  done,  all  the  people  I  have  known,  almost  all 


324  To   M.  L.  G. 

I  have  thought—  among  the  thoughts  that  count.  And 
clearest  of  all  are  my  meetings  with  you.  I  remember 
everything  that  we  ever  said  to  each  other.  I  remem- 
ber how  you  looked  at  me,  each  time,  and  even  what 
you  wore.  I  could  describe  your  clothes,  and  your 
neckties ;  your  scarf  pins  and  your  sleeve  links.  I 
remember  every  turn  of  your  head  ;  what  I  thought  of 
you  the  first  time  I  saw  you ;  how  I  changed  my  mind 
afterwards,  and  how  wonderful  the  change  was,  like  a 
burst  of  sunlight. 

I  am  not  sure  if  I  told  you  what  I  said  to  A 

about  your  eyebrows  after  that  first  time.  But  I  think 
I  did  not  tell  you,  though  I  have  recalled  it  often  since, 
and  smiled  a  little.  You  know  —  for  I  have  told  you 
this  —  you  were  the  first  intellectual  Englishman  of  the 
class  to  which  you  belong,  whom  I  had  met,  socially,  in 
England.  In  the  first  half  hour  I  thought  you  were 

affected.  A- said,  "  It  is  the  Oxford  voice."  And  I 

said, "  He  has  such  dreadfully  high-souled  eyebrows,  like 
Galahad's." 

I  never  dreamed  of  caring  for  you  then,  though  I  ad- 
mired you,  almost  in  spite  of  myself.  "  It  would  be 
difficult  to  live  up  to  a  man  with  those  eyebrows,"  I 
said  flippantly  to  A . 

And  it  has  been  like  a  punishment  for  my  flippancy, 
loving  you  as  I  have  loved  you  since,  to  remember  those 
words  of  mine,  knowing  how  hard  it  is  for  such  a  woman 
as  I  am  to  live  up  to  such  a  man  as  you  ! 

I  wonder  if  you  will  think  me  ridiculous  when  I  tell  you 
that  since  I  sent  you  away  I  have  been  twice  to  Oxford, 
just  in  the  hope  of  passing  a  few  "  undergrads,"  or  a  couple 
of  dons,  in  the  street,  and  hearing  the  "  Oxford  voice  "  ? 


To   M.  L.  G.  325 

Hearing  it  there,  I  found  that  yours  is  not  the  Oxford 

voice.     It  has  only  a  trace  of  what  A meant  when 

she  laughed  that  day,  and  said,  "  the  Oxford  voice." 
Your  soldiering  life  has  left  a  stronger  impression  on 
you,  I  feel  now,  than  anything  else. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHEN  I  came  to  England,  it  was  not  so  much 
because  I  wanted  to  see  England,  as  that  my 
money  was  nearly  gone,  and  I  needed  to 
make  more.  I  was  not  yet  ready  to  go  back  to  my  own 
country.  I  shrank  still  from  New  York,  and  the  people 
I  might  not  be  able  to  avoid  there,  and  I  had  no  eager- 
ness to  act.  But  I  decided  that,  if  I  must  act,  I  would 
rather  it  were  in  England  than  America. 

So  I  left  Italy,  saying  that  I  left  the  home  of  my 
heart,  and  that  I  could  never  feel  for  another  land  what 
I  felt  for  it.  But  immediately  I  fell  in  love  with  Eng- 
land. I  loved  it  even  as  the  train  took  me  from  Dover 
to  London.  It  was  September,  one  of  those  dreamy, 
golden  Septembers  that  come  to  England  sometimes. 
I  had  never  seen  anything  like  the  sweet  peace  of  the 
English  country,  and  I  felt  that  London  would  be  kind. 

You  know  what  one  of  my  letters  of  introduction 
from  Mr.  O did  for  me.  It  seemed  as  if  some- 
thing had  taken  me  by  the  hand  and  hurried  me  to 
England  at  precisely  the  right  moment.  The  season 
that  followed  I  thought  perfect,  for  I  did  not  guess 
what  I  lacked  in  not  knowing  you.  It  was  then  that  I 

saw  your  photograph  at  A 's,  and  she  told  me  about 

you  ;  but  I  had  no  presentiment  of  what  was  to  come. 
How  strange  that  I  had  none !  Where  could  my  spirit 
have  been  wandering  ? 

I  met  a  good  many  interesting  people  that  winter  in 
326 


To  M.  L.  G.  327 

London,  but  they  were  mostly  in  an  artistic  and  theatrical 
set.  It  was  London  itself,  not  its  people,  that  impressed 
me  most.  I  have  told  you  that  I  lived  near  Westminster, 
and  the  Abbey  was  more  to  me  than  anybody  or  any- 
thing else  in  the  world.  It  taught  me  a  thousand  things, 
even  about  acting,  for  my  hours  there  alone,  nearly  every 
day,  gave  my  character  mellowness  and  depth.  If  I  live 
to  be  very  old  — •  which  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  do  —  I  can 
never  forget  the  thoughts  that  came  to  me  in  Westminster 

Abbey,  in  my  first  winter  in  England.     I  told  A a 

little  of  what  I  felt,  and  she  wanted  me  to  see  King's 
Chapel  in  Cambridge.  It  was  arranged  that  she  should 
take  me  there  one  day  in  early  spring ;  but  she  was  ill 
and  could  not  go.  Somehow  I  could  not  bear  to  give 
up  the  excursion,  and  so  I  went  alone. 

I  knew  that  the  afternoon  music  was  famous,  but  I  had 
to  be  at  the  theatre  before  eight,  so  I  dared  not  risk  wait- 
ing, even  to  hear  it  begin.  It  was  about  three  o'clock 
when  I  came  into  the  Chapel,  and  no  one  else  was  there, 
for  sharp  flurries  of  rain  had  fallen,  and  frightened  sight- 
seers away.  I  sat  down  to  gaze  up  at  the  beautiful  roof, 

which  A had  sent  me  to  see,  because  of  its  likeness 

to  the  Henry  VII  Chapel  at  Westminster.  Another 
shower  had  begun,  and  the  dust  was  so  deep  that  I  had 
to  gaze  steadily  up  with  wide-open,  unwinking  eyes,  in 
order  to  make  out  the  details  of  the  carving,  just  as  one 
can  call  stars  out  of  a  seemingly  empty  sky  at  twilight 
by  looking  for  a  long  time.  Slowly  the  details  gave 
themselves  to  my  persistence ;  the  delicate  uplifting  col- 
umns, like  rows  of  tall  arum-lilies,  with  lovely  heads 
meeting  at  the  middle  of  the  roof;  and  I  traced  the  carv- 
ings, trying  to  think  out  all  their  meaning.  Then,  sud- 


328  To   M.  L.  G. 

denly  a  stream  of  sunlight  poured  through  the  black 
clouds,  and  in  at  the  west  windows.  Between  the  tall, 
straight  stalks  of  the  stone  lilies,  hovering  ghosts  of  rain- 
bows  floated,  which  dimmed  or  pulsed  with  color  as  the 
clouds  moved  across  the  sky.  It  was  as  if  the  mirage  of 
some  heavenly  garden  glowed  in  the  church.  Rose  and 
gold  stained  the  ivory  tints  of  the  carved  stone  angels,  as 
flower-pollen  stains  a  check  which  brushes  a  lily.  And, 
as  I  watched  the  colors  pale  and  brighten,  the  organ 
thrilled,  and  music  broke  out  in  a  glorious  fountain  of 
sound.  It  rose  and  fell  with  the  floating  rainbows,  so 
pure,  so  sweet,  it  was  like  perfume  —  perfume  of  the  tall, 
branching  lilies. 

Think  of  sitting  there  all  alone  among  the  rainbows, 
and  hearing  the  voices  of  angels  singing  to  me,  and  to  no 
one  else !  I  am  not  sure  that  this  was  not  the  best  thing 
that  has  ever  happened  to  me,  except  knowing  you  ;  both 
great  things,  and  both  memories  now.  Yet  I  won't  say 
only  memories.  I  tell  myself,  when  I  am  lonely,  but  for 
the  friend  I  have  in  my  own  heart,  that  memories  are 
just  as  real  and  living  presences  as  the  hours  of  to-day. 
For  this  moment's  present  is  the  next  moment's  past, 
and  what  ought  it  to  matter  whether  a  joy  is  the  memory 
of  ten  years  or  ten  minutes  ago  ?  I  have  not  strengthened 
myself  yet  to  the  point  where  it  does  not  matter ;  but 
perhaps  I  shall  reach  that  point  in  time,  if  I  have  to  de- 
pend mostly  on  memories  for  my  personal  happiness. 

The  music  was  made  by  a  great  organist  from  London, 
who  used  to  be  a  chorister  at  King's  Chapel  twenty-eight 
years  ago.  I  found  this  out  afterwards,  and  I  did  not 
need  to  find  out  that  he  was  playing  for  his  own  delight. 
He  went  on  and  on  and  on,  for  sheer  joy,  as  if  he  could 


To   M.  L.  G.  329 

not  stop,  just  like  a  nightingale  or  a  lark.  The  music 
caught  me  up  to  a  heaven  I  have  never  lost  sight  of  since 
then. 

Of  this,  and  other  things  I  have  written  about  the  years 
that  brought  me  near  to  you,  I  wonder  why  I  wrote  them. 
And  I  wonder  more  often  what  you  will  think,  than  when 
I  first  began  to  write.  In  the  beginning  I  told  what  had 
to  be  told  if  you  were  to  see  the  making  of  me.  Lately 
I  have  written  now  and  then  what  I  wished  to  write,  be- 
cause of  the  pleasure  it  gave  me  to  put  it  on  paper,  per- 
haps for  your  eyes  to  see.  If  you  think  I  am  consciously 
trying  to  show  contrasts,  you  will  be  mistaken.  It  is  not 
that.  Still,  I  have  grown  more  self-conscious  in  writing, 
I  feel,  and  know,  as  I  have  gone  on.  The  heart-burning 
and  the  shame  of  laying  myself  bare,  and  breaking  your 
ideal,  has  cooled  a  little.  And  in  getting  past  the  bad 
days,  on  paper,  as  I  got  past  them  in  life,  I  seem  to  come 
closer  to  you,  as  if  I  were  speaking  to  you,  instead  of 
writing.  Sometimes,  if  I  dared,  I  should  believe  that  our 
thoughts  reached  each  other ;  that  my  need  of  sympathy 
received  its  answer.  At  least,  it  does  no  harm  to  feel 
that. 

I  suppose  the  whole  question  raised  by  these  extracts 
from  my  life,  which  I  have  tried  to  give  you  from  inside 
and  outside,  is  this :  What  would  I  —  my  Ego  —  have 
been  if  its  earthly  spark  had  been  lighted  in  a  different 
environment  ?  If,  for  instance,  I  had  been  born  as  a  baby 
into  such  surroundings  as  I,  the  thinking  woman,  was 
born  into,  and  then,  later,  had  been  pushed  down  to  the 
level  of  my  real  childhood  ? 

For  me,  it  is  a  question  without  an  answer.  I  would 
give  the  little  I  have  worth  giving  to  know  what  answer, 


330  To  M.  L.  G. 

if  any,  rises  in  your  mind.  Yet  I  can  see  no  satisfactory 
answer  as  possible.  If,  in  a  different  frame,  I  would  have 
been  different,  that  must  argue  inherent  weakness.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  I  would  have  been  the  same,  in  spite 
of  a  happier  start,  it  seems  to  argue  inherent  faults  or 
folly  in  myself. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

I    WISH  that  my  first  impressions  of  England  had 
been   associated  with  you.     But  I  had  two  years 
there  while  you  were  away ;  and  then  I  went  back 
to  America  to  act,  still  knowing  nothing  of  you  except 

what  I  had  heard,  and  the  photograph  A had  shown 

me,  in  talking  of  you.  Still  another  year,  or  nearly  a 
year  passed  after  I  came  again  to  live  in  England,  before 
we  met.  Yet  all  the  things  I  have  loved  best  in  England, 
since  I  first  saw  it,  remind  me  of  you,  as  if  we  had  seen 
them  together. 

I  hardly  know  why  I  did  not  stay  in  America,  after  I 
went  back,  because  the  new  point  of  view  I  had  gained 
gave  me  a  new  interest  in  everything.  And  I  liked  my 
work,  and  people  were  kind. 

It  is  rather  wonderful,  and  very  good,  how  soon  evil 
can  be  forgotten  or  ignored.  I  had  been  gossiped  about, 
and  some  worse  things  than  were  ever  true  had  been 
said  and  printed.  Yet  no  one  seemed  to  remember. 
Or  if  a  few  did  remember,  they  were  silent,  and  none  of 
the  old  stories  were  revived.  Often,  I  scarcely  knew 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry  over  the  pressing  invitations 
that  came  to  me  from  prim  ladies  standing  high  on 
"  society  "  pedestals.  Just  because  I  was  trying  to  make 
up  for  my  long,  blank  years  of  ignorant  blindness,  by 
reading  and  studying,  I  got  a  reputation  as  a  bookworm 
and  a  "  recluse,"  such  an  odd  reputation  for  an  actress, 
that  by  those  who  did  not  look  back  I  seemed  to  be 

331 


332  To   M.  L.  G. 

considered  quite  a  model  of  all  the  virtues.  It  was  on 
the  top  wave  of  this  reputation  that  I  was  swept  back  to 
England  for  the  second  time ;  and  those  who  had  been 
kind  to  me  before  were  even  kinder.  I  understand  very 
well  what  sort  of  idea  you  had  of  me  before  we  met.  It 
was  like  an  introduction  to  a  volume,  which  gives  the 
reader  a  clue  before  he  begins. 

There  is  nothing  I  need  write  about  my  life  in  America 
during  the  two  years  I  spent  there  after  my  return,  for  I 
have  no  big  things  to  repent  of,  or  be  glad  of,  during 
that  time.  But  there  is  just  one  thing  about  some  one 
else,  not  myself,  I  should  like  to  tell.  In  a  big  city,  far 
west,  I  met  Alma  —  quite  by  accident.  She  was  mar- 
ried, not  to  the  man  who  for  her  sake  had  sent  all  her 
company  east,  years  ago,  but  to  a  friend  of  his,  whom 
she  had  known  through  him,  and  who  knew  the  whole 
of  her  story.  She  was  still  lovely,  though  her  outlines 
were  sharpened ;  and  she  seemed  happy  in  a  quiet  way. 
I  was  playing  in  the  town  where  she  lived,  and  she 
asked  me  to  visit  at  her  house.  I  went  gladly,  for  I  had 
loved  her  through  all  the  years,  and  had  never  forgotten, 
though  we  had  passed  out  of  each  other's  lives.  At  first, 
she  was  slightly  reserved,  though  sweet  and  affectionate ; 
but  one  night  her  husband  had  gone  east  on  business,  and 
we  sat  up  very  late  after  the  theatre,  talking.  She  told 
me  a  good  many  things  about  the  past,  but  d welt  mostly 
on  her  gratitude  to  her  husband.  I  thought  then,  in  my 
heart,  that  it  should  be  the  other  way  round,  for  she  was 
so  charming,  so  exquisitely  refined  and  gentle,  while  he 
appeared  not  only  commonplace,  but  even  rather  com- 
mon. Now  I  understand  exactly  how  she  felt. 

In  describing  the  success  her  marriage  had  been,  she 


To  M.  L.  G.  333 

attributed  her  happiness  entirely  to  the  fact  that  her  hus- 
band knew  the  worst  there  was  to  know  before  he  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife.  But  she  had  been  spared  the  dreadful 
ordeal  of  telling  him.  He  had  known  much  of  her  early 
history,  and  had  seen  the  latter  part  shaping  itself.  In 
spite  of  everything  he  had  been  willing  to  take  her. 
But  whether  he  had  condoned  her  past  life  because  he 
was  common  and  commonplace,  or  in  spite  of  being 
both,  I  could  not  decide,  and  have  never  decided.  Often 
and  often  lately  I  have  asked  myself — Which? 

After  you  and  I  knew  each  other,  and  I  began  to  care, 
I  tried  with  all  my  might  to  stop  loving  you,  for  fear  of 
the  consequences.  I  foresaw  that  loving  you  would  mean 
suffering  for  me,  perhaps  for  us  both.  Sometimes  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  leave  England,  and  go 
back  to  live  in  America.  But  I  was  not  strong  enough 
—  or  weak  enough,  to  run  away. 

After  we  had  our  second  talk  together  —  the  queerest, 
most  starry  talk  any  woman  ever  had  with  any  man  she 
was  just  beginning  to  know —  I  could  think  of  nothing 
and  no  one  but  you.  I  could  not  imagine  how  I  had  found 
the  world  worth  living  in,  before  I  knew  you  were  in  it.  J 

Things  you  said  made  me  realize  how  much  I  still  had 
to  learn,  and  how  far  off  the  horizon  is.  It  was  like 
climbing  a  mountain  to  go  up  and  up  the  path  of  friend- 
ship with  you,  rinding  with  each  turn  a  new  and  unex- 
pected outlook.  The  higher  the  level  I  reached,  the 
more  mountains  of  almost  unattainable  knowledge  and 
inspiration  I  saw,  billowing  away  to  the  ends  of  creation, 
the  borders  of  eternity.  And  I  gloried  in  that  great  com- 
pany of  mountains,  because  you  had  climbed  them  all, 
and  knew  their  names  and  their  most  intimate  beauties. 


334  TO  M-  L-  G- 


Even  if  I  had  been  the  woman  you  nobly  believed  me 
to  be,  I  should  have  been  ridiculously  small  beside  you, 
hardly  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  I  realized  more  each 
day  how  little  I  was,  at  best,  how  unworthy  still,  though 
worthier  than  I  had  been. 

I  said  no  longer  with  the  same  confidence,  "  The  cloud- 
shadows  can  pass  and  leave  no  dark  trace."  I  thought 
that  a  woman  loved  by  such  a  man  as  you  should  always 
have  walked  on  mountain  tops,  in  sunlight. 

But  in  the  sudden  radiance  of  learning  that  you  cared 
for  me  (learning  from  your  eyes,  not  your  lips)  I  let 
myself  go,  almost  deliberately,  for  a  few  days,  so  that, 
come  what  might,  I  should  for  once  have  lived.  Never 
had  I  really  lived  till  those  days.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  now  ;  never,  even  in  Italy,  had  I  lived  with  my  whole 
nature,  my  heart,  my  blood,  my  mind,  my  soul  —  all,  all  ! 
Those  days  nothing  can  take  from  me.  I  know  and 
cannot  forget  till  the  end  of  me,  if  end  there  is,  what  it 
was  like  to  love  and  be  happy. 

But  the  break  came  when  you  spoke.  It  had  been 
only  a  mirage  of  happiness,  like  the  rainbow  mirage  at 
King's  Chapel.  When  you  told  me  how  you  loved,  and 
how  high  you  held  me,  the  vision  was  shattered.  If  I 
could  have  died,  with  the  white  light  of  your  reverent 
love  shining  on  me,  I  would  have  thanked  God. 

Do  you  remember  some  words  you  quoted,  not  then 
(for  we  were  living  too  intensely  to  think  of  what  any 
other  man  or  woman  had  said  about  love),  but  the  next 
day? 

"  A  kiss  lays  low  the  walls  of  thee  and  me." 

If  your  kiss  had  laid  low  the  wall  of  me,  and  let  you 


To  M.  L.  G.  335 

see  what  was  on  the  other  side,  what  look  would  have 
come  into  your  eyes  ? 

You  left  me,  on  both  days,  believing  that  I  loved  you^ 
and  was  happy  in  loving.  But  through  both  nights  I 
suffered  as  I  had  not  known  I  could  suffer.  It  was  as  if 
my  soul  were  being  flayed  alive.  I  do  not  think  human 
nature  could  endure  more. 

I  wonder  if  Alma  suffered  so,  when,  knowing  that  all 
was  over  between  her  and  Cyril,  she  bade  me  good-bye, 
and  drank  the  poison  ? 

I  longed  desperately,  the  second  night,  to  go  to  A 's 

door,  and  knock ;  to  beg  her  to  let  me  in,  and  then  to  tell 
her  everything.  I  did  get  up  at  last,  and  go  out  into  the 
corridor ;  but  I  went  no  further.  I  could  not  bear  to 

be  so  selfish  as  to  disturb  A in  the  night  with  my 

troubles. 

Next  morning,  when  she  came  into  the  garden  —  the 
dear,  enchanted  garden  —  I  was  there.  I  had  been  there 
since  dawn.  The  sunrise  had  given  me  back  a  little 
courage,  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  say  nothing  to 
her,  for  I  was  sure  no  one  could  really  help  me.  I  meant 
to  let  her  think  that  I  had  only  just  come  down,  but  she 
saw  by  my  face  that  something  had  happened.  She 
thought  that  you  and  I  had  quarrelled !  I  could  not  bear 
to  have  her  believe  that  of  us,  and  somehow  she  drew 
from  me  enough  to  make  her  understand. 

Then  she  gave  me  the  advice  of  which  I  told  you 
when  I  began  to  write :  to  marry  you,  and  keep  silent 
about  the  past.  She  said  :  "  A  woman's  past  is  her  own, 
just  as  a  man's  is  his."  And  on  principle,  I  agreed  with 
her.  Only,  I  could  not  take  her  advice.  She  argued 
with  me,  insisting  that  it  was  a  stupid  convention  for 


336  To  M.  L.  G. 

women  to  tell  such  things  to  men ;  that  men  did  not  wish 
them  told  ;  they  would  rather  be  happy,  and  not  know  ; 
that  "  confession  "  was  a  selfish  luxury,  and  the  wish  for 
it  a  sign  of  hysteria.  I  repeated  over  and  over  that  per- 
haps she  was  right,  and  explained  that  I  had  no  hysterical 
longing  to  confess,  rather  the  contrary ;  but  that  you  be- 
lieved me  to  be  one  sort  of  woman,  whereas  in  reality  I 
was  another.  And  I  tried  to  make  her  see  that  to  marry 
you  and  keep  silent,  as  she  advised,  would  be  like  a 
woman  who  loved  a  man,  disguising  herself  to  represent 
another  woman,  whom  he  loved,  for  the  marriage  cere- 
mony. Still,  I  did  not  convince  A .  She  said,  "  I 

am  of  his  world,  and  ought  to  know  what  is  best  for 
him,  better  than  you  can."  Also  she  harked  back  to  that 
old  axiom,  "  The  outsider  sees  most  of  the  game." 

You  know  how  eloquent  and  enthusiastic  she  is  when 
she  is  interested.  Almost  she  persuaded  me  to  take  her 
advice.  I  wanted  so  much  to  feel  that  she  was  right,  and 
I  was  wrong.  But  when  I  saw  you  again,  and  looked 
into  your  eyes,  I  knew  that  for  me  there  was  only  one 
thing  to  do,  since  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  you.  I  must 
send  you  away,  and  make  you  think  I  did  not  care 
enough  to  go  with  you,  after  all. 

I  am  repeating  this,  so  that  you  may  be  very  sure  I 
loved  you,  and  love  you  now,  and  will  love  you  always. 
Just  in  case  it  may  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  know. 
But  not  for  anything  would  I  have  you  think  that  I 
suffer  through  all  the  days,  as  I  suffered  then.  I  am  not 
writing  to  call  you  back,  only  to  give  you  my  whole  truth. 

Whatever  you  wish  to  think  of  me,  that  is  what  I 
pray  you  to  think,  for  I  know  that  you  will  think  chival- 
rously. 


To  M.  L.  G.  337 

I  have  read  over  again  now  what  I  have  written  up  to 
this  page,  and  although  I  am  far  from  satisfied,  at  least  I 
see  that  I  have  done  my  best  to  be  true. 

Above  all  things,  do  not  feel  remorse  if,  now  that  you 
know  the  real  woman,  you  decide  not  to  come  and  not  to 
write.  Whatever  you  decide  is  best  for  you  will  be  best 
for  me.  And  you  must  not  picture  me  as  desperately 
despairing,  or  existing  feverishly  from  day  to  day,  only 
in  the  hope  of  hearing  from  you  that  I  am  forgiven. 

It  is  true  that,  when  I  let  you  go,  all  personal  happi- 
ness for  me  went  with  you.  But  long  hours  of  calmness 
came,  and  I  hope  to  find  something  like  real  peace  in 
Venice  again.  I  am  going  back  there  soon,  to  the  place 
where  I  "  found  myself."  And  I  tell  you  once  more,  I 
am  a  thousand  times  better  and  happier  for  having  you 
in  my  memory,  like  a  picture  over  an  altar,  behind  a 
curtain. 

When  I  think  of  myself,  though  I  feel  —  often,  not  al- 
ways —  that  intrinsically  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  a  man, 
frankly  I  am  not  sure  that  I  would  have  been  as  good  a 
woman  as  I  am,  if  the  cloud-shadows  had  never  dark- 
ened the  lagoon.  It  is  not  that  I  hold  the  belief,  already 
as  old-fashioned  as  the  "  new  woman  "  of  many  years 
ago,  that  a  woman  has  a  right  to  the  same  experiences  as 
men,  without  being  questioned.  It  isn't  that.  It  is  only 
that  I  am  not  sure  about  myself.  And  I  have  a  strange 
conviction  that  to  the  heart  of  the  Real  Me  the  black 
shadow  never  reached. 

I  want  to  be  my  new  self,  to  shut  the  door  on  the  past, 
and  live  in  the  present  and  future.  But  I  can  see,  oh  so 
plainly,  that  there  is  little  reason  for  you  to  want  even 
that  new  self  at  its  best  in  your  life.  Search  your  own 


338  To   M.  L.  G. 

soul  to  decide.  Yet  I  think,  somehow,  that  now  you 
will  know  without  reflecting  whether  we  are  for  each 
other  or  not. 

You  will  not  be  "  spoiling  my  life  "  by  keeping  your- 
self out  of  it.  There  will  never  be  any  other  man  in  my 
life.  There  never  has  been  any  other  who  counted,  in 
my  heart.  But  while  sunrises  and  sunsets  throw  their 
banners  across  the  sky,  while  winds  call,  stars  throb,  and 
waters  murmur  to  my  soul,  I  cannot  lose  all  that  is  worth 
having  or  live  behind  prison  bars. 

So  I  say  again  :  put  my  needs  out  of  your  mind,  and 
decide  what  is  best  for  yourself. 


THE  END 


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